


you’re in my head, you’re in my blood

by nightcalling



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: Joe shuts his eyes. He already knew this was a ridiculous notion, but now that he’s trying and failing to explain it out loud, the absurdity of the ordeal has been cemented in his mind. What’s more, he didn’t even consider if Leslie was single or taken, had automatically assumed that it would be the former. He’ll apologise, hang up, show up by himself to the party, it’s not a big deal—“Okay,” Leslie says.“Okay,” Joe echoes. He blinks. “Okay…?”“You need arm candy to parade around at this party, right? So, okay.”*Or, Joe asks Leslie to be his pretend boyfriend for Will and Tom’s engagement party.
Relationships: Joseph Blake/Lieutenant Leslie, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39





	you’re in my head, you’re in my blood

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’m back with this monster that’s basically Name That RomCom Trope: The Fic. Thank you to [Emma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlypotato) for enduring my questions regarding the schooling system in England. <3 Any remaining inaccuracies are a product of my brain.
> 
> Some content warnings for the explicit sexual content: come eating, rimming, pain kink, light (?) dirty talk, consensual rough sex, possessive thoughts/behaviour
> 
> Title is from “About Love” by Marina.

“So.” Will swallows the last bite of his risotto, swishing it down with a sip of tea. “You’re coming to the engagement party, right?”

Joe chokes on his coffee—black, because he was already falling asleep before noon and he needed the full force of the bitterness to wake him up—mid-sip. “Whose engagement party?”

“My and Tom’s, who else? We decided on a date.” Will sets down his teacup with such exaggerated elegance that it makes Joe want to hurl the bowl of sugar cubes on the table at him. “I thought that Tom would’ve told you by now.”

Tom told Joe many things during their weekly call. They do this every Sunday now that Tom’s moved in with Will, into Will’s ridiculously spacious penthouse in the middle of the city. Yesterday, Joe learned that Tom got promoted to assistant manager at the pet store, that Will bought him a new scooter, and that they’ve adopted another dog. They’re all very pleasant and exciting developments, but there was nothing, _nothing_ about setting a date for their engagement party.

“He really didn’t tell you,” Will says. He raises his teacup for another sip. “Hmm.”

“Yeah, he really didn’t,” Joe mutters, stabbing his fork into his salad. Reflecting back on his and Tom’s hour of meaningless chatter, he’s now realising that many things he’d brushed off as mildly odd were actually evidence of Tom being incredibly suspicious. For example, Tom was overly cheerful. Tom is always cheerful, but the way he laughed after every other sentence was more than normal, even for him. Joe had attributed it to all the good things that had been happening to Tom lately, and Joe didn’t blame him—he’s always happy to hear about Tom’s life going well.

But, thinking about it more carefully now, Tom was also using the word “totally” a lot. The promotion was “totally” coming. The scooter was “totally” awesome. The new dog was “totally” adorable. In fact, Tom might’ve used “totally” at least twenty times during the conversation. That, coupled with all of Tom’s high-pitched giggles, pointed to one conclusion: Tom was trying to hide an even bigger secret, one that he didn’t want Joe to know for fear of offending him or making him angry.

In other words, the engagement party. Which makes no sense.

“Why wouldn’t Tom want to tell me about the party?” Joe asks. Tom had been talking non-stop about being engaged since it happened last Christmas, but because Will and Tom wanted to wait until after Tom obtained his Master’s before officially tying the knot, they decided to host an interim engagement party instead. So, Joe knew it was coming, and Tom knew that he knew it was coming. If that’s the case, then why didn’t Tom just… tell him?

“He tries to hide it, but I think he’s worried about you,” Will says, picking up his spoon and swirling it around his teacup.

“Why? For what?” Joe asks, because _Tom_ , being worried about _him?_

“You know,” Will says, tilting his head slightly before holding himself upright again. “He’s always been a romantic, right? And, well…”

Will gestures to Joe with his spoon in the vaguest manner that Joe’s ever seen. Luckily, they aren’t best mates since childhood for nothing. Joe knows what every one of Will’s strange quirks means, ranging from the faintest twitch of Will’s eyebrows to the most animated of hand waves.

“He’s still thinking about that?” Joe asks, sitting back against his chair. “He shouldn’t be.”

“That’s what I told him,” Will says. “But, you know how he is. He’s worried you’ll be sad that he’s finding happiness before you do or something like that.”

 _Finding happiness_. Will’s right. Tom has always been a romantic—it’s the inevitable result of growing up on lavish period dramas that their mother fed him while preparing food in the kitchen. Joe must be off his older brother game if Tom is spending any part of his time worrying about something silly like this.

“Tell him he doesn’t need to worry,” Joe says. “And that I’m going to kill him for making me find out about the party this way.”

Will laughs, tapping his spoon against the teacup once before setting it down. “I’ll convey the message.”

“So, when is it? The party.”

“July 31st. We’re having it at my family’s vineyard resort in Surrey.”

“That’s next month,” Joe says. “Pretty soon.”

“It won’t be that fancy. We’re only inviting close friends.” Will digs into his briefcase and takes out a pink and blue envelope with a ribbon adorned on the front. “Here.”

Joe takes the envelope and pulls out the card inside.

_You are cordially invited to celebrate the engagement of Will Schofield and Tom Blake._

Below that, is the standard information: date, time, location… and a space to indicate a plus one.

“You don’t need to fill it out,” Will says. “Just thought I’d give you a copy to keep as a souvenir. Tom spent so much time flip-flopping between what colour and design to pick in the shop, after all. You can tack it up on that corkboard of yours as a memento.”

Joe laughs. That’s Tom, wanting everything to be perfect for the big day. And that’s when it hits, a sudden sharp pang of… something, settling in his chest. Guilt? No. Sadness? Not quite that, either. He’s not sure what it is, but—

“Actually,” Joe says, his mouth moving on its own. “I will be bringing someone.”

Will leans forward, drops his mouth open, then shifts in his seat all while staring at him. He does this whenever he’s troubled by Joe’s state of mind and doesn’t know how to broach the topic. “Someone. Like… a partner?”

“Yes.” Joe nods. _Huh?_ “Exactly like a partner.” _Wait._

“Um.” Will puts on a smile that’s a half-grin, half-grimace. “Okay. Who is it?”

“It’s, uh.” Joe finishes off his coffee. “It’ll be a surprise.”

Will has his hands folded neatly atop the table, thumbs tapping together like a metronome. At first, Joe thinks Will is going to call his bluff, but all Will does after a few more taps is sigh.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Will says.

“I always know what I’m doing.”

“I’d be more inclined to believe you if I didn’t personally witness you trying to chug a whole keg that one time.” Will inspects his watch. “I should head back to the firm if I want to be prepared to meet my next client. Talk to you later?” he asks, then grabs the check that’s lying on the table.

“Hey—” Joe reaches out, trying to steal the tray away, but Will is too swift, damn him.

“On me,” Will says, “for being the bearer of sudden news.” He hands the tray along with his credit card to a waitress who comes by, then turns back to Joe with a more serious look. “I really hope you’ve thought this through.”

“I don’t need you lecturing me on good decisions,” Joe says while watching the waitress return to their table with a receipt. “Not after you tried to court Tom in increasingly drastic measures until you decided to ask him like a normal person. Really, hiring a choir to serenade him underneath the window?”

“Alright, I’ll concede you the point,” Will says, signing the receipt with a practiced flourish, then lifts his head. “We will need a name at some point for this mysterious plus one for logistical reasons, so…”

“I’ll let you know,” Joe says with a smile that he doesn’t feel.

“I sure hope so, for your sake.” With that, Will picks up his briefcase, slings his jacket over his left shoulder, then walks a few long strides out the café door.

The café is lined with glass walls, so Joe waits until Will has turned the corner a block down before letting out an audible sigh and sinking down into his seat. What was he thinking? He thought he was done making stupid and rash decisions now that he’s been an official member of working society for several years.

It’s not a problem, right? He just needs someone to tag along for…

He looks down at the invitation again. It’s an overnight party, so, for about twenty-four hours maximum. Twenty-four hours isn’t bad. That’s one day. Just one day and a good chunk of it will be spent out of sight of others—like in their hotel room while sleeping on their beds.

Wait. Beds or bed? Plural or singular?

Shit.

~

Joe takes a longer time than usual to leave the café and trudge back to the office. He ordered a sandwich and salad combination that was much larger than he’d expected, so he had to wait until he’d digested most of it before he could walk without feeling like he was going to puke. That, and he needed the extra fifteen minutes to properly reflect on everything—not just what Will told him, but also what Joe had promised Will, and to Tom indirectly.

He spends the rest of the workday supremely distracted. At one point, he accidentally sends the wrong email to the wrong person. He was supposed to update MacKenzie on their most recent project but only realised after five minutes of sitting at his desk without any response back (MacKenzie _always_ responds in less than a minute) that he’d typed in MacKay—their new intern’s name—instead of his boss’s name.

Luckily, he’s had some good karma built up from the last project they’d successfully completed, so MacKenzie only told him off with a curt “I expect better from you” at the end of his reply after Joe sent him the email for real. Usually, this would tick Joe off beyond belief, because he’s pretty certain he works the hardest out of everyone in this entire bloody company. In his defence, his mind was occupied with other things—like why the hell he blurted out that he was going to bring a plus one to his brother’s engagement party when he’s very much single and has been single for the past five years.

He clocks out at 17:00 on the dot and rushes straight to the tube station. After he gets home and changes into a t-shirt and shorts, he dumps a box of pasta into a pot, chops up some tomatoes, and pours them into a separate pot along with garlic, basil, and butter. He’s waiting for the sauce to simmer and the pasta to soften as his brain churns with options, trying to figure a way out of this ginormous clusterfuck of a situation he’s gotten himself into.

The pasta takes forty minutes to fully assemble, and within that time, he comes up with a battle plan. First, he’ll go through his contacts and see if there’s anybody he can accost from his immediate social circle to be his unfortunate partner-in-crime. He might not know that many people, but he gets along with most of his co-workers and has a decent number of friends, so it can’t be that difficult finding someone normal to accompany him.

Joe takes his pasta, a bottle of wine and a glass (he thinks he’s earned this, even if it’s a Monday night), and his phone over to the sofa with him, sets them all down on the coffee table, then stares at each of the items in turn. He takes a bite of the pasta, gulps down half of a glass of wine, then picks up his phone.

Richards and Smith are very nice, but they’re married… to each other. Richards would probably be good-natured about it and go along with the act if Joe asked, but unfortunately, both Will and Tom know who he is, so that’s a no-go.

Jondalar is Will’s other best mate, but Joe doesn’t talk much to Jondalar, basically only has him as a contact in case he needs dirt on Will. Jondalar would be the most respectable person to choose, but Will knows Jondalar inside and out. He’d know if Jondalar was dating someone.

Cooke is Tom’s oldest childhood mate, and if Joe’s being honest, the look on Tom’s face if Tom thought they were a thing would be worth the charade alone. But, last Joe heard, Cooke had attached himself to someone, and Cooke and Tom keep in daily contact, so obviously, that’s also not going to work.

Lauri would just laugh in his ear and tell him that he’s a loser.

Everybody else in his contacts is someone he’d rather not ask—like MacKenzie. He definitely doesn’t want to ask MacKenzie. Not just because MacKenzie is his boss, but also because… well, it’s MacKenzie.

It’s incredible how it takes needing someone to pretend to date to realise how few people you trust in the world, isn’t it?

Joe sighs and drops his phone haphazardly onto his lap with a muffled plop. Time to put the second step of his battle plan into action.

He opens his laptop and types “affordable escort services that aren’t shady and/or creepy” as rapidly as he can into Google without looking at the screen. He clicks on the first link, stares at the incredibly sexy men and women posing suggestively all over the page, then promptly closes the window.

Okay. That’s not going to happen.

It’s been an hour since he finished his pasta and downed his third glass of wine. He nearly poured himself a fourth before he stopped and reminded himself that it was still a Monday night, and he couldn’t in his right mind drink that much alcohol before the week had barely started.

He’s about to seriously consider ringing Will up and telling him that his mysterious beau is shy and doesn’t want to show up at a fancy party with him when his eyes focus on the corkboard across the room, the one that’s hanging next to the bookshelf.

He stands up, pads quickly over, then stares at one particularly faded photo in the middle of all the post-it notes, receipts, and miscellaneous collection of cards and flyers he’s amassed over the years. The photo is of his football team from his first year of sixth form, the one that made it all the way to the end of the tournament and came out the other side with a championship title. He runs a finger over everyone’s faces, drinking in the naiveté of their expressions. It was ten years ago, after all. It’s been ten years since the tournament. Ten years since…

Joe breathes in sharply, tugs the photo free of its pushpin, squeezes his eyes shut, then twirls the photo around. He opens his left eye, slowly, then his right. There, in scribbled pen ink, is the same string of numbers that have always been there. For some reason, he’d expected them to have disappeared along with the person who it belongs to.

Actually, is that person even still on the other side of the line?

Joe hovers a thumb over the first number on the dialing pad of his phone—a four—and begins typing in the rest of the numbers—six, zero, five, eight…

No. This is a bad idea. He deletes the numbers and tacks the photo back onto the corkboard. Escort service, it is.

He has one particular escort chosen in his cart—a rather good-looking bloke with dark hair, dark eyes, and a mysterious quality to him—when he realises that what he ended up doing was selecting the option that looked most like _that person._

Well… if Joe’s going to spend twenty-four hours conning his brother and his best mate, it might as well be with someone he sort of knows rather than an imitation of him.

Joe deletes the very good-looking escort from his cart and walks back up to the corkboard. He tears down the photo, punches the number into his phone, and presses dial before he can chicken out again.

He honestly doesn’t expect anyone to pick up. Why would he? That person has most likely switched to a different number through the years of cellphone upgrades. Besides, it’s entirely possible that this person doesn’t live in England anymore, or even on this continent. For all Joe knows, this person could be halfway across the world in China, or India, or Mexico, or—

“Hello?” The coarse voice on the other end instantly sends Joe back ten years, and he feels his face flush. Jesus Christ… is his body regressing to that of a sixteen-year-old’s? It’s been so long, for heaven’s sake. He’s an adult with a proper job, he pays his bills on time, his credit score upgraded from “good” to “excellent” other day—he’s an _adult_ —

“Who the hell is this?” the voice asks again, words slurred in irritation and annoyance. “If you’re that pompous suit asking to buy this property again, I’ll kindly ask you to fuck off because it’s not for sale.”

“No, I’m not—” Joe yells, then winces. Way to sound professional. “No,” he repeats in a quieter voice. “It’s, ah…”

God. He really didn’t think this through. What is he supposed to say? _Hi, it’s Joe Blake. You know, the bloke you hooked up with ten years ago after the football season’s last game_ —

“Blake?” The voice is suddenly much more alert. Joe hears a slight clearing of a throat. Maybe the man is in the middle of waking up?

Joe peers at the clock. It’s just past 20:00.

“Blake,” the voice states again.

“Yes?” Joe confirms.

“Joe Blake?”

“...Yes?”

“Ah.” There’s a rustling noise—sheets being pushed back? A pillow being caved in?—before the voice speaks again. “Yes, right. What do you want?”

And Joe is… a little taken aback, if he’s being honest. Was this person always this nonchalant about everything? Especially when some schoolmate he hasn’t heard from in a decade rings him out of the blue? And how did the man know it was him, anyway, just from his voice? Has he remembered what Joe sounds like after all these years?

Joe shakes his head. Impossible. Whatever the case, he supposes he shouldn’t complain, considering the monumental favour he’s about to ask the man.

“Hi,” Joe says. “I, uh… I know it’s been forever since—I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

The man doesn’t speak, but Joe can hear his light breathing, rhythmic and steady over the static. Joe starts counting the seconds ticking by on his watch and gets to a full twenty seconds before his patience runs out.

“Leslie?” Joe asks. “Did you hear me?”

Wait, what if it isn’t actually Leslie on the other end? The person who picked up did know Joe’s name, but that doesn’t mean—

The man huffs over the phone, the noise being loud enough to feel like air is being directly puffed into Joe’s ear. “Yes, I heard you. Well?”

Okay. The man didn’t deny it, so it must be Leslie.

“Well, what?” Joe asks.

“You wanted to ask me something?” Leslie asks in a bored tone.

Joe pinches the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t explained anything about the situation, and he’s already regretting this decision. But, he’s come this far, and he really doesn’t have any other option, so…

“Do you remember Tom?” Joe asks. “My brother. Looks like me—”

“A little younger?” Leslie interjects. “How could anybody forget? He’s all you blabbed about most days. He still making eyes at that rich arse? Will, was it?”

Joe fights down the laugh, groan, sigh that bubbles up in his chest. “Yes. They’re engaged, as a matter of fact. They’re having a celebration next month.”

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” Leslie drawls. “Is that all?”

“No, I—” _Don’t throw the phone across the room, don’t hang up on him._ Joe clenches his free hand into a fist, then loosens it again. He leans his forehead against the wall next to the corkboard, then stares down at where the edge of the carpet meets the trim. The seams are beginning to pop up and come apart—he’ll have to either fix it himself or hire someone to do it for him.

Joe muffles his mouth with his hand and rushes out, “I need a plus one.”

Once again, Leslie doesn’t speak, but Joe can still hear Leslie’s breathing—this time, it’s at a more erratic, faster pace than before. He doesn’t blame Leslie. The poor man’s probably wondering whether Joe is yanking his chain or not.

“I’m sorry,” Leslie says, after a few beats. “ _What?_ ”

Joe nearly drops his phone onto his foot. He only recalls Leslie saying “sorry” once in his entire life, and that was when Leslie was forced to do so by the college’s dean after being caught throwing up graffiti behind the bleachers on the football field. The football field, where they—

“A plus one,” Joe says, shoving the memory away. This isn’t the time to be reminiscing. “You know, for— _you know_.” Is Leslie really going to make him say it?

“Has the definition of a ‘plus one’ changed recently?” Leslie asks. “You do know what that term implies, right?”

Of course, Leslie is going to be an arse about it.

“No, it hasn’t changed, and yes, I know what it implies.” Joe resists pinching his nose again, settles for tapping his fingers against the wall instead. He turns around, peering up at the ceiling. “I just—I’m not seeing anyone, and Tom’s worried, and I don’t want him to be, not when he’s about to have one of the happiest days of his life, and—it’s my job to be worried about him, not the other way around, right? So I thought I’d—I thought I’d ask someone to…”

Joe shuts his eyes. He already knew this was a ridiculous notion, but now that he’s trying and failing to explain it out loud, the absurdity of the ordeal has been cemented in his mind. What’s more, he didn’t even consider if Leslie was single or taken, had automatically assumed that it would be the former. He’ll apologise, hang up, show up by himself to the party, it’s not a big deal—

“Okay,” Leslie says.

“Okay,” Joe echoes. He blinks. “Okay…?”

“You need arm candy to parade around at this party, right? So, okay.” Leslie’s smug satisfaction is absolutely not lost in translation over the phone—in fact, it’s coming through loud and clear. Sadly, considering the circumstances, Joe doesn’t really have the right to call Leslie out on it.

Joe lets out a shaky breath. Surprisingly, he feels a little relieved. “Really?” he asks.

“Why not?”

Joe squints up at the ceiling. Something’s fishy. “This isn’t like you. What’re you getting out of this?” He hasn’t ever known Leslie to commit to something without it being hugely beneficial to him.

Leslie hums. “It’s not every day Joe Blake rings you up begging for a favour.”

 _Begging?_ “Excuse me, I am not _begging_ —”

“Besides,” Leslie continues, “I owe you.”

Joe pauses, swallowing down the “you prick” about to roll off his tongue. “For what?”

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, I’ll do it. Free of charge.”

“I wasn’t going to pay you,” Joe says, though he was planning on treating Leslie to whatever he wanted, capped at 100 pounds. What can he say? He’s generous.

“Wouldn’t have asked you to,” Leslie says. “Listen, I’ve got to go, but text me the details, yeah? Same number.”

“Okay?” Joe blinks again. This is going way too smoothly and way too fast. “Thank—Thank you, then, I suppose,” he stammers out lamely.

Leslie remains quiet a third time. Joe is about to hang up, thinking that Leslie left the phone on by accident when another bout of static wells up.

“It’s a date,” Leslie says before the line cuts off.

Joe stares down at the screen, Leslie’s number blinking tauntingly back at him in neon lettering as a singular thought occupies every nook and cranny of his mind: What the hell has he gotten himself into?

~

Joe felt pretty good about the situation after he went to bed last night, but now, two hours into his workday with nothing other than one page of a report and a slew of back-and-forth texts with Leslie to show for his efforts, he’s starting to severely regret everything.

[Leslie 09:12] **Let me get this straight.**

[Leslie 09:12] **The party’s at a prissy vineyard.**

[Leslie 09:13] **That Will owns.**

[Joe 09:13] Is that a problem?

[Leslie 09:13] **No.**

[Joe 09:14] What’s with the attitude then?

[Joe 09:14] Vineyards too chic for you?

[Joe 09:14] They don’t mesh with your whole vibe?

[Leslie 09:15] **Vineyards aren’t chic.**

[Leslie 09:15] **You realise that Will is Tom’s sugar daddy, right?**

Joe almost texts back “Will is NOT Tom’s sugar daddy,” but stops because it’s not like Leslie doesn’t have a point.

[Joe 09:15] I didn’t pick the place, alright?

[Leslie 09:16] **Even you wouldn’t pick someplace as pretentious as that.**

[Leslie 09:16] **Whoever you end up getting hitched to will be safe from that at least.**

Joe grips his phone tightly, his fingertips going white from the pressure. Is this a compliment or an insult? He honestly can’t tell.

[Joe 09:16] Stop changing the subject.

[Joe 09:16] Are you still in or what?

If Leslie wants out, he’d better tell Joe _now_ so that Joe can block Leslie’s number and delete Leslie from his life forever.

[Leslie 09:17] **I’m still in.**

[Leslie 09:17] **This is more entertaining than what I do most days.**

All of a sudden, Joe is sitting there, trying to imagine what Leslie looks like now, and what Leslie might be doing to pass his days. Does he have an office job, as Joe does? Leslie was always the type to push against boundaries. A perfectly packaged desk job doesn’t sound quite like his style.

Ten years is a long time, though. Either Leslie has stayed exactly the same, or is now completely different than before.

[Joe 09:18] Should we meet up?

One, three, five minutes pass. Leslie doesn’t reply. Joe turns back to his computer and adds two sentences to his report before the nerves finish settling into his entire body. Did he overstep? Is Leslie reconsidering his offer?

[Leslie 09:30] **I assume you’re in London?**

[Joe 09:30] Yeah.

[Joe 09:31] Aren’t you?

[Leslie 09:31] **No.**

Oh. For some reason, Joe presumed that they were in the same general area, but it would make more sense that they weren’t, wouldn’t it?

[Joe 09:31] Where are you then?

[Leslie 09:32] **Manchester.**

Manchester? A heaviness descends onto Joe’s shoulders, one that he’d felt only once before.

[Joe 09:32] Is that where you moved to? For university.

[Leslie 09:32] **No, I’m here for work. I’m normally based in London.**

[Leslie 09:32] **You caught me while I happened to be out on business.**

Joe breathes out a sigh of relief. London might be a big city, but knowing that they might’ve been in each other’s near vicinity all this time sends a warmth through his chest. Even though they parted ways after Leslie graduated, they still managed to come together in some manner after so many years.

[Joe 09:33] The party won’t disrupt your work?

[Leslie 09:33] **I’ve got nothing that weekend, but I won’t be back in London until a few days before.**

[Leslie 09:33] **So, even if you wanted to ask me out on a date, I wouldn’t be able to comply.**

Joe feels his cheeks heat and is very thankful for the fact that he has his own private office, a luxury that’s only afforded to a few select members of the company. It would appear that his hard work hasn’t been for nothing.

[Joe 09:34] That’s not what I meant.

[Joe 09:34] I meant we should hash out details but I guess we can do that on the train over.

[Joe 09:34] Unless you want to travel separately?

He probably should’ve asked that first. There’s no real reason why they need to arrive together, after all.

[Leslie 09:35] **Think it’s better if I stick close to you.**

[Leslie 09:35] **In case I get lost.**

Joe has no idea what to say to _that_. He pushes his phone to the edge of his desk, opting to focus on typing out the rest of his report when another ping comes.

[Leslie 09:40] **It’ll be a good chance to catch up, won’t it?**

Joe tries concentrating on his report, he really does, but…

[Joe 09:42] It could be.

[Joe 09:42] I’ll see you on July 31 then. I’ll get the tix and send you the details.

[Leslie 09:43] **It’s a date.**

Again with that? Maybe this is Leslie’s way of signing off.

Joe turns back to his report, now a significantly less interesting endeavor without Leslie around to distract him.

When Joe’s lunch break hits at noon, his phone buzzes not one minute after.

“Who the hell is this mysterious person you’ve been hiding from me?” Tom immediately yells into his ear when Joe picks up.

“Hello to you too,” Joe says. He balances his phone between his ear and his shoulder and uses both hands to untangle the cellophane containing his wrap. “Aren’t you supposed to be assistant-managing?”

“Assistant managers have lunch breaks too,” Tom says. “And don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to stop this interrogation from happening.”

“Why do you want to interrogate me?”

“Joe,” Tom complains, his whine making his pitch go nasally. “I’m your brother! We’ve always told each other these things!”

Joe tears off a large chunk of lettuce and pops it into his mouth. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well, consider me surprised,” Tom says. Joe can picture Tom’s pout and crossed arms as clear as day. “So? Who’s the lucky person?”

“Where’s the fun in telling you?” Joe asks.

“It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, alright?” Tom says. There’s a crumpling noise that sounds like the crinkling of paper. “I made a list of everybody you know and crossed all of them out.”

“Everybody I know?” Joe bites into his wrap and chews thoughtfully before adding, “That’s not possible.”

Tom huffs into the phone. “You know, like, ten people. That’s including me, which is sad.”

“That’s not true,” Joe says, pulling up his contacts. “I have a good thirty or so people saved in my phone.”

“Your co-workers don’t count,” Tom says impatiently. “And all of your friends are basically my friends, so again, you know nobody. Either you met someone new or this person doesn’t exist. Which is it?”

Joe considers Tom’s logic. “Technically, neither.”

“Stop speaking in riddles, you dolt. It’s my engagement party. You’ve got to listen to me.”

“That makes no sense,” Joe says.

“It makes perfect sense,” Tom argues. “Host gets to make people tell them things.”

“I bet Will set everything up. You probably sat on the sofa playing Mario Kart.”

“I can play Mario Kart while providing my opinions,” Tom says. “Also, you’re changing the subject again. Come on, please?”

Joe stuffs the last bite of his wrap into his mouth, then bunches up the cellophane and tosses it in the direction of the dustbin in the corner. It bounces off the edge and rolls back towards him until it hits one of the legs of his desk.

“I’ll give you a clue,” Joe says, picking up the cellophane and throwing it again with a corrected angle. This time, it lands directly into the middle of the dustbin.

“That works,” Tom says eagerly. “Hit me.”

Joe leans back in his chair and spins one rotation on its axis before pausing. “It’s someone from sixth form.”

“Hmm.” Tom has a habit of voicing his thought process out loud, so Joe settles in, bracing himself for the ride. “If it’s from that far back, it must be someone that I also knew at some point. One of your old football mates? No, can’t be, I already crossed some of the more good-looking ones off. Someone you took your A-Levels with? You didn’t get on with anybody else in your year as far as I remember though. Well, aside from Will. I mean, you knew people, but you were always too focused on your studies to care about them. Maybe it’s not someone in your year? Maybe it’s—”

Tom gasps. “Leslie?”

Joe screeches to a halt mid-rotation on a second spin.

“Oh my God,” Tom says with equal amounts of pride and excitement. “Really?”

Joe sighs. Well, there’s no point in hiding it now. “How did you do that?”

“I had a feeling,” Tom gloats, which doesn’t clarify anything at all. “Something about the way you said it? Sounded like you two had a history.”

Tom got all of that from “it’s someone from sixth form”? Maybe Tom’s in the wrong line of work.

“Congratulations,” Joe says, aiming for casual. He spins the last half-rotation until he’s facing his desk again. “Now you know.”

Tom goes quiet, breathes steadily for a few beats before saying, “That kind of makes sense, actually. I can’t believe I didn’t think of him.”

What the _fuck?_

“What does that mean?” Joe demands.

“I _mean_ ,” Tom says, emphasising the word like he does when he believes Joe is being obtuse on purpose. “You might’ve never told me what happened that day after the game, but I could tell you two always fancied each other. It got really sad, watching you guys being idiots. I’m pretty sure the whole college had a betting pool going on. Some of the teachers were in on it too. That’s wildly inappropriate, isn’t it? I guess it doesn’t matter at this point.”

It’s a good thing Joe finished his coffee before Tom said all of this because otherwise, he would’ve spat it onto his work clothes and all over his keyboard.

“We did not fancy each other,” Joe says, purposefully ignoring the implications of that statement. He doesn’t even know how to begin unpacking the rest of Tom’s information dump.

“You totally did,” Tom insists.

“How do you know all of this?” Joe asks. “You were a brat. You weren’t even a student with us.” Tom only popped by the campus before or after classes, usually to stare at Will, and he barely came into contact with Leslie most days.

“I have my ways,” Tom says. “And why are you even denying it? You’re together now, aren’t you?”

The way Tom says “together” sends a flutter rippling through Joe’s stomach. Is it something he ate? Maybe the wrap wasn’t fresh.

“Aren’t you?” Tom asks hesitantly.

“Yes,” Joe says, nodding even though Tom can’t see him. “Yeah, we are.”

“Okay,” Tom says, stretching out the word. “My break’s over, so I’ll have to get that story out of you a different day, but I’m happy for you. You know this, right?”

“Of course I know,” Joe says. “But I’m the one who should be happy for you.”

“Shut up and let me be the nice brother for once,” Tom says. “Love you. Bye.”

After Tom hangs up with a click, Joe breathes out a sigh of relief, his heart pounding and head spinning. This is too much excitement contained in one morning.

What does Tom even mean, suggesting that Joe and Leslie had been… what, pining for each other? Like two teenagers out of some young adult romance novel? Even if one side of that attraction might—if Joe were forced to admit it—have been technically true, that doesn’t mean it was reciprocated. Tom’s head is overrun with all these notions because Tom has been busy thinking about the party. Tom’s head is in the clouds. That’s it. That’s the explanation for why his imagination has been running at Mach speed.

Joe’s got himself convinced when a ping redirects his attention.

[Will 12:38] **Leslie, huh? I take it back. I guess you do know what you’re doing.**

Joe has never wanted to strangle anyone so badly in his entire life.

~

The next few weeks pass by both too slow and not slow enough. For one, he keeps texting Leslie during the interim leading up to the party even though they’ve already laid out their plans. Everything he learns about Leslie makes Joe want to meet present-day Leslie so he can reconcile it with the image of past Leslie that’s been dragged out of the recesses of his mind.

For example, in the middle of one of Joe’s board meetings, Leslie sends him a photo of what looks like the remnants of a mug dropped onto the floor. Instead of paying attention to whatever MacKenzie is grumbling about, Joe hides his phone under the table and taps out a reply.

[Joe 13:16] Uh?

Because… uh? What’s this supposed to be, some sort of modern art?

[Leslie 13:17] **Newly graduated uni students are walking disasters.**

[Leslie 13:17] **Don’t ever hire one to be your assistant.**

[Leslie 13:17] **They’ll cock up your schedule and destroy your belongings.**

[Joe 13:18] Don’t be so dramatic. We’re not that much older.

Ten years ago, Joe was sixteen, and Leslie was eighteen, which makes Leslie about five, maybe six years older than the typical university graduate now.

[Leslie 13:18] **Mine’s one of those crazy whiz kids. Graduated at 19, if you can believe the bastard.**

[Joe 13:19] Wouldn’t you rather have a genius than an idiot for an assistant?

[Leslie 13:19] **Not if it’s this lad.**

[Leslie 13:19] **He has an eye for things but fuck me if he isn’t clumsy as all hell.**

Joe stifles a laugh but accidentally makes a noise that’s a half-choke in the midst of doing so. MacKenzie peers over at him, eyes squinted like he needs prescription glasses.

“Is there a problem, Blake?” MacKenzie asks tersely.

“No,” Joe says. He tries to not look down at the slew of emojis that Leslie bombards him with. “Just appreciating the thoughtfulness of your presentation, sir.”

A light wave of chuckles and coughs ripples through the rest of the people sitting at the table, but it promptly dies down when MacKenzie shoots them all a glare.

“Good to know everybody finds my presentation ‘thoughtful,’” says MacKenzie. He turns back to Joe. “You’ve been off lately, Blake. Pull yourself together.”

“Sorry, sir,” Joe says absent-mindedly. Leslie sends him another photo, this time of a trail of coffee that’s dripping off a desk and onto the handles of the drawers. Another one of the assistant’s antics, Joe guesses. He stuffs his phone between his thighs and shoots MacKenzie his most somber expression to demonstrate how remorseful he is at interrupting the meeting. “Please continue.”

MacKenzie narrows his eyes, then launches back into his rant about shareholders.

Joe digs his phone back out.

[Joe 13:28] You almost got me thrown out of a meeting, you arse.

[Leslie 13:29] **Well, well, look at you, being a rebel.**

[Leslie 13:29] **Not the prim and proper honours student you were back then, are you?**

Joe rolls his eyes. He can picture past Leslie standing there in front of him, hat on, and a cigarette dangling off of his lips that are curved in a sneer.

[Joe 13:30] I was hardly prim and proper. You must’ve been paying attention to all the wrong things.

The three dots appear, disappear, then appear again. The cycle repeats for several minutes, building like the pounding inside Joe’s chest.

[Leslie 13:33] **I like to think I paid attention to all the right things.**

The phone nearly slips through Joe’s fingers and onto the wooden floor—which would’ve been terrible, because MacKenzie would’ve definitely kicked Joe out of the meeting and perhaps docked his pay if MacKenzie was in a particularly poor mood.

Joe stares down at the vertical bar blinking back at him and wonders what to type back. _Haha? You don’t ever pay attention? What right things?_

He has a neutral “What do you mean?” drafted out when another message comes.

[Leslie 13:37] **Assistant dropped a painting this time. Got to go sort out the mess.**

[Leslie 13:37] **Pay attention to your meeting.**

Joe is both relieved and disappointed that Leslie removed himself from the situation. Relieved, because Joe got out of it easy; disappointed, because he kind of wants to listen to Leslie complain a bit more. It makes him feel like he’s sixteen again.

After the meeting ends, Joe returns to his office and rereads Leslie’s texts, running his eyes over “I like to think I paid attention to all the right things” again and again until the words begin to bleed together.

Then, in an effort to control himself, he moves on to the next text: “Assistant dropped a painting this time.” Leslie always had some sort of pencil, pen, or paintbrush tucked behind his ear on the days where a cigarette was nowhere to be found. Is the painting in question one that Leslie bought or one that he created himself?

Joe sits up, closes the report he was working on yesterday, and types “ellis leslie artist” into Google. The first result is for a website titled _E. Leslie_ , with a URL that reads _ltellisleslie.com_.

That has to be him, right?

Joe clicks on the website and comes face to face with a colourful array of portraits, landscapes, and shapes trickling down the page in gallery format. He might not know a lot about art, but one look at this collection of images tells him one thing with certainty: this is Leslie. He sees Leslie’s dry sarcasm in the portrayal of a little girl sitting on a stool looking bored, Leslie’s uncaged spirit in the rendition of a grass field being blown about by the wind, Leslie’s tendency towards abstract questions in the array of purple and blue squares and circles. He sees Leslie’s humanity scattered about these pieces.

Joe navigates to the ‘About’ page and is discouraged when there’s no photo to be found, but there is a short blurb typed up in a minimalistic font.

 _E._ _Leslie_ _is a self-taught freelance artist. He’s gained experience through hosting art shows for his own work and by mentoring up and coming artists. He received the Flanders Field award for his piece_ A Scrap of Ribbon _, a multi-medium painting created as a tribute to the widows left behind by fallen soldiers in World War I. This painting is currently being displayed as part of a touring art show, co-hosted by E. Leslie, for all entries created to honour the contributions of military families. A schedule of stops can be found on this page: flandersfieldarttour.com_

When Joe clicks on the link, he scrolls down until he sees Manchester, England listed as one of the stops. Before Manchester, Leslie has been all over the United Kingdom, including Belfast in Ireland, Glasgow in Scotland, and Cardiff in Wales. His next stop after Manchester—the final stop, as a matter of fact—is back in London, beginning the weekend after Will and Tom’s engagement party.

Joe picks up his phone and taps on Leslie’s name.

[Joe 14:28] You expect me to believe that talking to me is more entertaining than all of this?

He sends along a photo of Leslie’s itinerary for good measure.

[Leslie 14:28] **Is your meeting over?**

[Joe 14:29] Answer the question.

[Leslie 14:29] **You’ve been doing your research.**

[Leslie 14:29] **Careful, or I’ll start to think you actually care.**

[Leslie 14:29] **I’m flattered though.**

[Joe 14:30] Don’t be. It’s my job to figure out who I’m hitching my wagon to.

[Leslie 14:30] **And?**

[Joe 14:30] And what?

[Leslie 14:30] **Your verdict?**

Joe hesitates, wondering what word to use that’ll give off the most impartial vibe.

[Joe 14:31] It’s… impressive.

[Leslie 14:31] **I can sense your disappointment from all the way over here.**

[Joe 14:31] I’m not disappointed.

[Joe 14:31] I mean it. You’re impressive.

[Leslie 14:32] **No need to kiss my arse, I already agreed to be a part of your little charade.**

Why does Leslie always do this? Why can’t he just…

[Joe 14:32] Why can’t you take a compliment when I give you one?

[Leslie 14:32] **What can I say? I’m modest.**

_Wow._

[Leslie 14:33] **For the record, the answer is yes.**

Joe pauses mid-reply.

[Joe 14:33] Yes what?

[Leslie 14:34] **You’re more interesting than my work.**

Why did Leslie use “interesting” this time? Joe’s always hated this whole texting business. One can never tell what somebody means without facial expressions or body language to accompany their words.

[Joe 14:34] I find that difficult to believe.

Leslie’s been all over the country, has probably been to other continents too. Meanwhile, Joe has been stuck in the same general area for his entire life. After Leslie graduated and moved away, it forced Joe to come to terms with how far ahead in life Leslie was compared to him. Even after completing university and finding a job in the city, Joe never felt truly fulfilled, not in the way he wanted. How do you chase after someone like Leslie, who had the power to open an alternative path if he was unsatisfied with the ones waiting for him at the fork in the road?

[Leslie 14:35] **You don’t need to believe it. It’s the truth.**

[Leslie 14:35] **I’ve got to go again. Call from a potential client.**

How does Leslie always manage to have something come up when their conversations veer into this territory? Is he ducking out on purpose? Is he stringing Joe along for fun? Joe thought he’d be immune to it by now, but it turns out all ten years has done is make him even more susceptible to Leslie’s charm.

No, not charm—an infuriating tendency to drop something suggestive and escape before explaining himself.

Joe shuts his phone off and stares at Leslie’s website that’s still pulled up on his computer. He tabs over to _A Scrap of Ribbon_ and runs his eyes over the collage of old photographs that have been assembled into the shape of a Medal of Honour. A single splatter of red paint stains the photographs, resembling blood. Above the medal, is a multitude of dry-pressed poppies coming together to form one large poppy.

Joe stares at the bright yellow “Buy Print” button sitting next to the painting and clicks on it before he can think twice.

He has the print sent to the office under MacKay’s name in case Leslie sees the order.

~

Suffice it to say, nothing prepared Joe for Leslie showing up at Waterloo Station in worn lace-up boots, tight ripped jeans, a paint-splattered bomber jacket over a white tank, sunglasses weighing down the front of said tank, and a maroon baseball cap covering what looks to be unkempt hair. He’s got a spiral of black leather bracelets hanging low around his right wrist, falling against his watch in layers, and a thin gold chain circling his neck, so thin that Joe wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t looking so intently.

At least Joe is still taller than him.

“Please tell me you’ve packed something more formal in that,” Joe says, eyeing the sticker-bombed blue suitcase propped up in Leslie’s left hand.

“That’s the first thing I get?” Leslie asks mildly. “Not a ‘thank you’ or a ‘wow, my saviour, I owe you my life’?”

Leslie’s voice isn’t as coarse as it was over the phone—it’s _coarser_ , but not in an unpleasant or grating way. In fact, if Joe had to pick a word to describe it, he’d settle for something like velvety, or soothing, which he knows is completely contradictory, but he can’t help it. He’d be content listening to Leslie recite every single dry instruction manual that Joe’s had to help write up for work if it was the last thing he’d ever get to hear for the rest of his life.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d turn up,” Joe says. He tears his eyes away from the bit of Leslie’s exposed chest and refocuses on Leslie’s face. It’s a very nice face. Either Joe’s memory is shit, or Leslie’s grown even more attractive in a decade. Leslie still owns those red lips that glistened in Joe’s dreams and those dark eyes that followed Joe wherever he went, but the confidence behind those lips has compounded, accompanied by a hint of wrinkles at the edge of those eyes.

Leslie is neither exactly the same nor completely different than before. And yet, he’s the spitting image of what Joe had unconsciously expected him to be: the boy that Joe fell for ten years ago, but now a man.

“If I give my word, I keep it,” Leslie says. He looks Joe up and down with a quick flick of his eyes, shrouded in a stoicism that gives no clues as to what Leslie is thinking. For some reason, it makes Joe feel like a showgirl on display, waiting to show Leslie a good time.

“Not what you were hoping for?” Joe asks, against his better judgment. He pulls on his t-shirt—plain grey and boring—pats down his hair, and tries to not feel too self-conscious.

Leslie’s eyes linger somewhere around Joe’s right shoulder. Joe automatically reaches a hand up and… oh.

“I got it after my last year of university,” Joe says, rubbing at the part of his skin that’s inked. He’s gotten so used to seeing his own reflection every day that he tends to forget that most people meeting him for the first time focus on the tattoo on his neck. Leslie isn’t exactly a stranger, but he’s not quite a friend, and he’s not a mere acquaintance either. Leslie is… Leslie is something else. Leslie doesn’t fit any of the labels.

“Hmm.” Leslie steps closer, running his eyes over the full length of the hawk silhouette perched on Joe’s neck, then meets Joe’s eyes with renewed interest. He’s always been able to do this, to devour Joe with a single look and strip him naked.

“What?” Joe asks warily.

“Nothing,” Leslie says, shrugging a shoulder. “Guess this means you have a high pain tolerance. I wonder if that translates to the bedroom?”

Before Joe can decide whether he wants to flush or retort, Leslie smirks and grabs one of the train tickets out of Joe’s hand, passing by in a waft of light cigarette smoke and whisky. Some things never change.

Leslie turns back around with a lazy spin, and that’s when Joe catches the gold glint reflecting off of the top of Leslie’s left ear. That’s definitely new. He was too distracted by Leslie’s… everything else to notice the piercing before.

“Let’s get a move on, shall we?” Leslie asks. “Darling.”

Joe clenches the handle of his suitcase and follows Leslie to the correct platform, resisting the urge to kick him in the arse. Either Leslie has a talent for drawing irritation out of everyone, or Joe is particularly prone to falling for it.

The train is pretty empty, which means that they don’t need to sit directly next to each other. After Leslie selects a seat, Joe sits down across from him. The lack of passengers also means that he can move on to the next order of business without worrying about others overhearing.

“We should come up with a story,” Joe says.

Leslie peers at him with indifference. “Getting right to it with no foreplay, are we? Don’t know why I expected anything else.”

Now is not a good time for Joe to lose his temper, so he grips the armrests of his seat, steadying himself. “I don’t want to go blazing in and land arse-up when people ask about us.”

“You mean Tom,” Leslie says. “He’s the only one who’d care enough to ask.”

Joe smiles, thinly. “It wouldn’t hurt to cover our bases.”

“We can make something up on the spot,” Leslie says. “Why’re you so concerned about it? It’s all fake anyway.”

“It’s not supposed to come off as fake.” Joe narrows his eyes, then adds, “And I’m not as good of a bullshitter as you are,” because he can.

“Ouch,” Leslie says, though he doesn’t look the least bit hurt. In fact, he looks delighted. “Alright, Blake. What do you have proposed for our romantic history, then?”

“Roman—” Joe crosses his arms. “Is this a joke to you, Leslie?”

“I’m being serious.” Leslie twirls one of his bracelets in his hands, flattening it and pointing it in Joe’s direction. “Knowing you, you must’ve worried your pretty little head about it every night before bed. It’s not like you to half-ass things.”

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it. Again with the not-compliment, not-insult.

“I know we’re already on the train, but you should know I’m considering pushing you off at the next stop,” Joe says.

“Okay, okay,” Leslie says, sitting up and propping his feet on his suitcase, legs spread wide. “Tell me what to say.”

“For starters,” Joe says, pointedly looking at anywhere but between Leslie’s legs, “you shouldn’t call me Blake.”

Leslie tilts his head back against the headrest, throat and amusement both laid bare. “Then you shouldn’t call me Leslie.”

“I—” Joe sets his jaw. “Fine,” he grits out. “Ellis.”

“Joe.” Leslie smiles. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Oh, Joe is going to kill him and hurl the body into the Thames. Unfortunately, he still needs Leslie, so he’ll have to table that thought for after the party is over.

Joe informs Leslie that their backstory is as follows: they bumped into each other in the city recently (“Recently? Isn’t that vague as shit?” Leslie interjected, but Joe ignored him and plowed on), decided to catch up and reminisce on old times, and found themselves enjoying each other’s company. Leslie asked if they could give it a shot, and Joe agreed.

“That’s it?” Leslie asks, unimpressed. He’s typing furiously at his phone, probably telling off his assistant again. “That’s the best you could come up with? We need more details than that.”

“It’s better to keep it simple,” Joe says. Convoluted stories will only come back to bite them in the arse. Besides, leaving room for plausible deniability is always smart.

Leslie flits his eyes up, then back down at his phone. “Why am I the one to ask you out?”

“It’s just a story,” Joe says. “It doesn’t matter who asked who.”

“Then why don’t we tell the truth?”

“What truth?”

“That you rang me up all desperate and I said yes.”

Joe glares at Leslie over his phone, then refocuses on the email that MacKenzie sent him. He’d told MacKenzie that he’d be unreachable during the weekend, but MacKenzie never pays attention to these sorts of things.

“We’re not saying that,” Joe mumbles, typing out an “I’ll implement the changes when I return on Monday” to MacKenzie. He can feel Leslie’s eyes on him, boring a hole through his phone and into his skull.

Leslie shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

After one minute of mutual silence, Leslie nudges Joe in the leg with his foot.

“What?” Joe asks, his patience dwindling by the second.

“The story’s not enough, is it? Don’t we have to…” Leslie raises both his hands and waves them around. “Or do you not care about that kind of thing?”

Joe stares, taking heed of the alarm going off in his head. “What kind of thing?”

“You know.” Leslie pockets his phone, pushes Joe’s suitcase out of the way, and sits down in the seat next to him. With Leslie in his space like this, Joe smells the cigarette smoke and whisky radiating off of Leslie’s clothes again. Is this what he’s going to come out of the weekend smelling like if Leslie’s going to be plastered by his side for the duration of the trip? He tries not to breathe the scent in too fast in case Leslie has gained mind-reading powers during the last ten years in addition to becoming even more beautiful.

“What’re you playing at?” Joe asks. He begins shifting backward but abruptly stops when Leslie’s face flickers briefly into something that Joe might call fondness if he dared to.

“You know,” Leslie repeats. He reaches out and intertwines his fingers with Joe’s before Joe can register the movement. “This kind of thing.”

Leslie’s palm is coarse like Leslie’s voice. What other parts of Leslie might also be rough to the touch? The hair on his nape? On his chest? On his jaw as he trails a pattern of kisses up someone’s thigh, opening his mouth to…

Joe swallows. It would be so easy to dig his fingernails into Leslie’s skin, marking Leslie like Joe owns him. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he mutters quietly.

“No? What about this, then?” Leslie tightens his grip and leans forward until his lips are ghosting across Joe’s cheek, down to Joe’s lips.

“That—That definitely won’t be necessary,” Joe stammers out. Why is his face so hot? Why does Leslie still have this effect on him? Why is he letting Leslie rile him up like this?

Leslie searches all over Joe’s face, Leslie’s dark brown eyes glimmering from the sun reflecting off of them. There’s a moment when Leslie flutters his eyelids that Joe thinks Leslie’s going to press in all the way. In the end, Leslie merely leans away, withdrawing his warmth with him. That’s not what’s bothering Joe, though. No—it’s the fact that he was ready to let Leslie kiss him that’s leaving him breathless.

“That’s a shame,” Leslie says, letting Joe’s hand go with a playful squeeze before returning to his seat.

Leslie has his phone back in his hand, the last minute seemingly forgotten when Joe finally remembers to breathe. Joe curls his fingers completely into a fist this time, trying to convince himself that the pounding in his chest and the emptiness he misses are both just a trick of his heart.

~

Joe’s seen photos of the Schofield-owned vineyard back when Will first showed him and Tom the completed property after it was fully renovated. The photos have nothing on the resort in person, though. One, they don’t even begin to capture how many acres of grapes the vineyard hosts on its land. Joe’s never seen so many of the same type of plant in one location, and he and Tom grew up on a farm. Two, the photos don’t do the hotel property justice—none of the finer details of the decor were apparent in two dimensions. Now that Joe’s standing here, neck craned upward, he can pick out all of the embellishments that he’s sure are unnecessary. Even so, they do make the place look pretty damn good.

The third and most alarming discrepancy from the photos, however, is the fact that there is unquestionably and undeniably a romantic atmosphere about the property. It perfectly explains why Will and Tom chose to host their engagement party here. As Will said, Tom’s always been a romantic, and Will would do anything to fulfill that romantic heart. In this particular moment, however, Joe wishes Will didn’t because this atmosphere managed to single-handedly raise the stakes of the weekend by a significant factor.

Why? He doesn’t know, explicitly, why, but he feels it in his bones. Whenever he gets this feeling, he’s never wrong.

“You’re telling me this isn’t prissy?” Leslie comments from behind him. He’s wearing his sunglasses now, making him look even more like a prick. Sadly, as with the embellishments on the hotel, Joe can’t deny that the more that Leslie accessorises himself, the better he looks. That probably says more about Joe than it does about Leslie if Joe’s being honest.

This weekend isn’t about honesty, though, is it? It doesn’t matter what Joe thinks as long as Leslie doesn’t find out about it.

“Are you going to be like this the entire time?” Joe asks. He doesn’t need Leslie’s judgmental sentiments accompanying him for the next twenty-four hours—Leslie himself is already a lot to deal with. “Let them have their fun, alright? They’re happy and in love.”

“Oh, of course. That’s what’s most important, isn’t it?” Leslie pushes his sunglasses onto his nose. “Doesn’t matter that this—” he gestures between the two of them, “—is the complete opposite of that.”

Joe is _absolutely_ going to kill him. He’s about to do it here and now, fuck the plan and all that preparation, when Tom comes barreling out of nowhere and crashes his full body into Joe’s.

“You’re here!” Tom yelps. He hugs and shakes Joe’s shoulders as he blabs on. “You’re here! You didn’t tell me you got here! When did you get here? You—”

Tom stops, both the yelping and the shaking, and peers around Joe’s shoulder. “He’s really here.”

Joe follows Tom’s eyes to where Leslie is standing a few metres away. Leslie’s face has gone passive, but his lips are quirking up in plain amusement and nothing else.

“I told you I was bringing him,” Joe says. “Did you not believe me?”

“Honestly? Not really.” Tom looks between Joe and Leslie, then back at Joe. “I can’t believe he’s actually here. I was so sure you were lying.”

“I don’t lie,” Joe says, fully realising how hypocritical that sounds.

Tom steps back but doesn’t let go of Joe’s shoulders. “Prove it,” he says.

Prove? Joe looks back at Leslie. “That’s not proof enough?”

“No. Something’s off.” Tom crosses his arms and begins tapping his foot.

This isn’t good. Whenever Tom shifts into one of his investigative modes, he won’t stop until he gets to the bottom of the case—and he’s been able to solve every mystery that’s crossed his path, as far as Joe knows.

“Look. He’s here, I’m here,” Joe says, heart pounding. “I don’t know what else you want me to—”

Suddenly, there’s an arm snaking around his waist, pulling him flush against…

“Careful how you finish that sentence,” Leslie says. He lowers his hand until his thumb is hooked through one of Joe’s belt loops, tugging Joe’s jeans slightly down from the weight.

“What—” Joe automatically raises a hand to pull his jeans back up, brushing against Leslie’s fingers as he does so and flushing bright red. Thank God for the afternoon sun that’s hanging high in the sky—he can attribute this disaster to the heat.

“Tom wants a show,” Leslie says. “Let’s give one to him.”

Leslie pushes his sunglasses onto the visor of his cap, then brackets Joe’s face and jaw with his free hand, hauling him even closer with the arm that’s around Joe’s waist. He gives Joe approximately five seconds to push him away before pressing his lips to Joe’s, open-mouthed and all tongue.

That’s another thing that hasn’t changed about Leslie—he still kisses like he’s planning to seduce not just the person he’s kissing, but everybody around him for good measure.

Joe hears the rush of blood in his ears along with some faint cheering and whooping from a few of the other guests trickling in. The kiss lasts for another ten, fifteen seconds before Leslie swipes his tongue across Joe’s bottom lip and leans back. Leslie’s calluses are pressed like a band-aid against Joe’s skin, and Joe nearly chases after the sensation when Leslie finally drops his hand, tearing open the wound.

If Joe was already red from before, he’s certain he’s even redder now from the lack of oxygen. Leslie, of course, looks perfectly normal and unaffected. Maybe Leslie should’ve become an actor if he has such a talent for pretending.

“Looks like I arrived at the right time,” a voice says mildly.

Joe turns on reflex and sees Will standing next to Tom with a blank expression on his face. He forgets that he’s still wrapped in Leslie’s hold and almost falls to the ground before Leslie hoists him up, firmly and confidently.

“Don’t go weak-kneed on me now, darling,” Leslie says.

“Dar—” Joe channels all the irritation he can muster into his glare: _You bastard_.

Leslie returns his glare with a smile. He turns to Tom, who now has his own blush hanging off of his cheeks. “Satisfied?”

Tom doesn’t move, merely lets out a guttural squeak.

Will looks between all three of them and drapes an arm across Tom’s shoulder. “Did you two get your room assignment yet?”

Joe tries to speak, but his vocal cords betray him by not wanting to function. He shakes his head instead.

“My assistant will get it for you, then. He’s inside somewhere. Ask for Bäumer. Blonde, kind of skinny, always has a clipboard.” Will spins Tom around and looks back at them one last time. “Thanks for coming. Both of you. Enjoy your stay.”

Joe swears he sees a hint of a smirk pulling at Will’s face before Will leads Tom away, but unfortunately, Joe doesn’t gain his voice back fast enough to call Will out on it.

After Will and Tom disappear back into the hotel, Leslie finally releases his hold around Joe’s waist. When Joe looks at him in dazed confusion, Leslie explains, “You looked like you were about to punch my lights out. Remind me to not come to your rescue again.”

“ _Rescue?_ ” Oh, there’s his voice. “Is that what you call that stunt?”

Leslie pivots on his heels. “It worked, didn’t it? They left, none the wiser. Now, we won’t have to prove anything else to them. No more PDA. You’re welcome.”

There are so many things Joe wants to say to that, but all he does is grab a hold of his suitcase and mutter, “Let’s go find this Bäumer and get our bloody room.” The sooner they can escape the eyes of other people, the better.

Joe doesn’t look to see if Leslie follows him, but when they get to the front door, Leslie reaches around him to push it open, chest against Joe’s back.

“After you,” Leslie says into his ear.

There is no way that Leslie’s not doing this on purpose. Joe ignores him and bulldozes forward with his shoulder against the glass. After he walks through, he allows the door to fall on Leslie before Leslie can come in after him.

~

Either all of the rooms in the hotel are built like a suite—which is entirely possible—or Will and Tom gave them special treatment by assigning them to the best one. Whatever the case, it’s a really nice room. Joe can’t afford to stay in a suite on his own income, so he decides to enjoy the luxury, even if it means Leslie is going to be around.

That’s what he’s decided when he walks into the bedroom and his good mood dissipates upon coming face to face with the bed. Singular.

“You’re going to be predictable and volunteer to sleep on the floor, aren’t you?” Leslie says, appearing next to him.

How is it that Leslie manages to pick the most provoking thing to say every single time?

“I was actually going to volunteer _you_ to sleep on the sofa,” Joe says, “but if you want the floor instead, be my guest.”

Leslie peers over at the sofa, where there are about half a dozen throw pillows assembled on it. “It does look nice, but—” he turns back to Joe, “I’m sure the bed is nicer. Wouldn’t want me to throw out this fragile back of mine, would we?”

Joe narrows his eyes. “You’re the furthest thing from fragile.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Leslie rolls his suitcase over to the right side of the bedroom and shrugs off his jacket, revealing arms that don’t look like they should belong to someone who paints and runs art shows for a living, what the hell. “Bed’s large enough for a third to join our fun. Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird,” Joe grumbles, but he hauls his own suitcase to the left side of the bed and places a palm on the sheets. They’re smooth and silky to the touch, which means they’ll feel even more incredible once he gets a chance to dive under them.

It’s only twenty-four hours, he reminds himself. Twenty-four hours, and Leslie is just… a minor inconvenience.

“I’m going to hop in the shower,” Leslie says, digging a shirt out of his suitcase. “Don’t steal anything.”

“Do you even own anything worth stealing?” Joe asks when Leslie shuts the door to the bathroom.

After Joe hears the water turn on, he goes to poke his head into the other areas of the suite. For some reason, there’s a fully equipped kitchenette even though he’s certain nobody comes here to cook. There’s a pot of what looks to be freshly brewed coffee sitting on the counter, though, so he pours himself a cup and takes it with him as he looks at the rest of the room. A large flat-screen television hangs on the wall of the main area, facing the sofa. Further across the room are large glass doors covered by beige curtains. When Joe pulls them apart, he sees a brick balcony overseeing the acres of grapes that greeted them when they first arrived.

He returns to the bedroom and walks up to the desk tucked in the corner. As he’s running his eyes over the furnishings, he notices a list pinned to the corkboard above the desk.

_16:00 Opening Reception_

_16:30 Vineyard Tour_

_17:30 Free Time_

_18:30 Dinner & Dance_

It’s an itinerary. Leave it to Will Schofield, neat freak extraordinaire, to come up with an itinerary for an engagement party.

Joe lies down on the bed and looks over at the clock sitting on the nightstand. They have about fifteen minutes until the reception begins. He’s about to text Will and ask what the dress code is like for the non-dinner portions of the evening when the lock to the bathroom unclicks.

“Hey,” Joe says. “Hurry it up, won’t you? We’ve got to go downstairs in—”

Leslie tumbles out of the bathroom, water dripping from the ends of his hair and down all over his neck, shoulders, and chest. His skin is flushed red, probably from the heat. He’s also wearing nothing aside from a towel slung low around his hips, revealing a patch of pubic hair tapering down to…

“Forgot my pants,” Leslie explains.

“Right,” Joe agrees. Their eyes meet across the nightstand, and of course, that’s when they both see the bowl of condoms and bottle of lube sitting there conspicuously. How the hell they didn’t notice them before, Joe has no idea, but the entire universe must be conspiring against him for him to be living through this cliché.

“I’ll be just a moment,” Leslie says, after clearing his throat. He stares at Joe, steps over to his suitcase, and promptly returns to the bathroom after grabbing his goddamn pants.

All of a sudden, the room feels significantly hotter than before. Joe gets up to go check the air conditioning and lowers the temperature by two degrees.

Around five minutes to 16:00, Leslie reemerges from the bathroom fully clothed. Joe thought the tank revealing Leslie’s arms was bad enough, but now that Leslie’s wearing a form-fitting t-shirt, the sleeves are hugging his muscles in all the right ways, making Joe’s mouth go dry.

“Shall we?” Leslie asks. He stuffs his phone into his back pocket, looks at Joe, then extends an arm out.

Joe takes it without thinking, letting himself be pulled up. That’s when Joe smells not cigarette smoke or whisky, but a faint rose aroma coming off of Leslie. It’s so at odds with the smell he typically associates with Leslie that Joe finds himself hating the resort for stocking shampoo that makes Leslie smell so good. He is definitely going to complain to Will about this.

Leslie pokes at Joe’s forehead, pressing down a stray curl with a finger. “Maybe you should’ve showered, too,” Leslie comments. “Your hair’s a mess.”

“I don’t want to hear that from someone who basically never uses a comb,” Joe says. He steps around Leslie and heads towards the door. “Come on, let’s go before we’re late.”

Then, Joe ducks his head and pats down his hair, angling his body such that Leslie doesn’t notice.

~

The opening reception is really just Tom standing in front of the lobby area talking in increasingly rapid and loud increments about how he’s so grateful that everybody travelled such a long way, how he’s so excited to get the party started, and how he’s so thankful that it’s a sunny day today. It’s quite adorable—even if everybody in the room weren’t already friends with Tom in some manner or the other, they’d all end up enamoured with him by the end.

Still, Tom goes on and on, and it’s when he goes off on a fifth tangent about the baby ducks he saw on the way to the vineyard that Will steps in and takes the microphone away from him.

“Save some of your energy for tonight, won’t you, love?” Will says.

Nothing about Will’s inflection indicates that he meant anything suggestive, but Joe knows him, as surely as the rest of the room knows him—which is why they all laugh. Tom goes red, punches Will in the upper arm, then hauls him in for a quick press of lips before burying his face in his shoulder.

No matter how many times Joe sees it, he can never get enough of the way Tom’s face lights up around Will. It makes his own heart swell with joy, to see Tom so blissfully and utterly happy.

“You look like the one who’s gotten engaged, not your brother,” Leslie says, walking over with two glasses of wine hooked between the fingers of one hand and a plate of various snacks balanced on the other.

“Did you go directly for the food?” Joe asks, but he accepts one of the glasses and steals a skewer from the plate.

“Just because I’m doing you a favour doesn’t mean I’m not here for a good time.” Leslie pops something that looks like cheese sandwiched between two crackers into his mouth. Knowing Will’s taste, it’s probably goat cheese.

“And are you?” Joe says, watching Leslie’s nose scrunch as he chews. “Having a good time?”

“Verdict not in yet.” Leslie takes a sip of his wine and makes a face that, if Joe’s deciphering it correctly, indicates he’s mildly impressed. “Food bar is levels above the company I order catering from, though, so if I had to decide now? Not bad.”

Joe scoffs. That’s as much of a simple “yes” as anybody will get out of Leslie.

“But ask me again after dinner,” Leslie adds after crunching on a chocolate-covered pretzel. “You can’t judge a host before the main course.”

“Who’s being a priss now?” Joe asks.

Joe thought that Will would be the one to guide them through the tour, but instead, Will seems to have set Bäumer on the job. The poor lad looks completely out of his element because he keeps glancing down at his clipboard every ten seconds, afraid he’s going to be struck by lightning for saying one wrong thing. Will is possibly one of the nicest blokes that Joe has ever met in his life, but people who don’t know Will well—or who have him as his boss—probably think he’s strict and ruthless due to his signature poker face. Chances are, Will thought he’d be doing Bäumer a favour by letting him take on new responsibilities and honing his leadership skills, but the lad truly looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. There are a few times when Tom leans in to whisper something in Will’s ear, then walks over to Bäumer to give him a pat of reassurance before returning to Will’s side. Joe is certain that Tom means the gesture to be friendly and kind, but every instance he does it only seems to crank up Bäumer’s nerves even more.

“They’re a force to be reckoned with, your brother and future brother-in-law,” Leslie comments at one point when Bäumer is in the middle of leading them down to the barrel room. “Lad’s about to explode.”

Joe laughs. “Reminds me of someone else.”

“Who?” Leslie asks.

“Your assistant. He only keeps dropping things because you’re too intimidating.”

“I told you, he’s a nervous bloke.”

“Nobody’s that nervous by default,” Joe says carelessly. “You probably draw it out of him. I understand what it’s like.”

He freezes after he steps off the stairs, pausing before entering the barrel room. At some point, they’d migrated to the back of the crowd until they ended up a good five to ten paces behind everybody else, so the rest of the group was already in the middle of a heated discussion by the time they caught up.

It was nice, at first—strolling around the property with Leslie next to him wasn’t as bad as he thought it’d be. Leslie would occasionally pipe up with his opinions whenever he thought that Bäumer said something wrong, and even though Joe has no knowledge of alcohol aside from the type he likes to drink, it was entertaining listening to Leslie being super into it all despite insisting that the place is pretentious. It reminded Joe of Leslie questioning every fact, every theory, every equation that was written in their textbooks. He always thought that was Leslie’s way of showing off or getting himself noticed, but he understands now that if Leslie talks a lot, it simply means that he’s passionate about something.

Now, though, Leslie is quiet, quips all spent, and Joe is wishing that they were mixed in with the rest of the crowd. That way, he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever look is on Leslie’s face with nothing else to focus on.

“Do I make you nervous?” Leslie asks. He steps off the stairs and leans in, crowding Joe against the doorframe. With the sole light source coming from inside the room, only Leslie’s eyes are lit—they run gold instead of their natural brown, as if the sun has been engulfed by them.

Joe retreats—an error in judgment in many ways, because he stumbles when his foot hits the raised door sill, showing his hand, letting Leslie see it all. Leslie catches him around the waist with both arms, line on a hook, reeling Joe in closer like he did earlier that afternoon.

“Were you always this clumsy?” Leslie asks, voice low and hoarse. The light in his eyes shifts, flickering in a pattern that matches the warm beat of Leslie’s heart.

Joe refuses to give a name to the funny feeling rising in his stomach. “It’s dark, okay? Can’t see shit down here.” He pushes at Leslie’s chest until Leslie releases him.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Leslie says, sinking his hands into his pockets. “Do I make you nervous?”

It’s the same question, but with some extra distance put between them, Joe sees what Leslie is trying to hide behind his own cards. There’s the tautness in Leslie’s shoulders, the unsteady terrain of Leslie’s breathing—the hesitancy disguising itself as smugness in Leslie’s expression.

Could it be that Leslie is the one who’s nervous?

“You’re blocking the way,” a thin voice suddenly says. When Joe spins around, Bäumer is staring at him expectantly, along with the rest of the crowd.

“Sorry.” Joe steps aside, letting Bäumer disrupt the moment.

Tom shoots him a confused look when he passes by. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Joe says, promptly pushing Tom towards the stairs when Will drifts by.

“You’re doing great,” Will says cryptically before following Tom up the stairs.

Joe should’ve done the smart thing and continued on the tour with the group, but that chance has come and gone. All he has left is the silence of the room and his revealed hand. Neither is very useful, not against a Leslie that’s staring at the light at the top of the stairs, purposefully avoiding Joe’s gaze.

It reminds Joe of the first time he saw Leslie. It shouldn’t have been anything particularly special—Joe was running late to class, his alarm having been miraculously set twenty minutes late the night before and his misfortune further compounded by a delay on the tube. When he finally arrived on campus and saw a person in his way, he thought that would merely be another conveniently placed obstacle to overcome—annoying, but not a hassle. Just a sidestep or a push to the shoulder, and he’ll be on his way. Easy.

Leslie was anything but easy to ignore. He had one foot on the bottom step and the toes of the other pushing tentatively off the grass, looking like he was pondering whether it was worth turning up at all.

Somehow, that was enough for Joe to come to a complete halt and ask, “You lost?”

From the way Leslie looked at him, Joe may as well have asked Leslie to spill the secrets of the universe. It was as if Leslie hadn’t expected anybody to notice his presence, thinking that if he’d turned back and disappeared, none would be the wiser. But, Joe was there on that cloudy, rainy, and miserable Tuesday morning, hit with such a longing to keep Leslie grounded that he almost, for a moment, believed an invisible force was behind it.

Even after all these years, Joe’s still not sure what the hell it is about Leslie that compels Joe to alter his trajectory for Leslie. He can’t fight against it, can’t stop himself from only making it two steps up the stairs before turning back around and asking, “Want to go wander elsewhere?”

Leslie finally looks at him. He’s hiding again, behind that armour of his, but that’s precisely why Joe takes the gamble every time—he wants Leslie to confess his secrets.

“I don’t know about you,” Joe adds, “but I’ve had enough of this tour.”

Leslie shifts his weight, dragging out the shadow of his form along with it. “You going to break the rules, Joe Blake?”

Joe shrugs. “It’s not breaking the rules if you don’t get caught.” He travels up the rest of the stairs and emerges back into sunlight, smiling when he sees Leslie’s shadow accompanying his own on the ground.

Despite how large the property is, there aren’t a lot of places that look interesting enough to warrant a visit. Joe picks out the closest acre of grape trees and begins moving towards it—a subconscious action, much like the assumption he made that Leslie would follow. After Joe ducks behind the first row of grapevines, he realises belatedly that he’d chosen the one location where they’d be guaranteed to be alone, or at least hidden out of sight. There aren’t any workers around, likely because Will gave them the weekend off, so here they are in the middle of it all, branches brushing at their arms, leaves tickling their skin, and elongated shadows giving off the impression that the acre stretches infinitely on.

The grapes are ripe for harvesting. They used to have a few trees of their own back on the farm, and it’s the same view here: deep red fruits growing on brown stems. Joe picks out one of the largest clusters, tearing it clean off the vine and biting directly into the bottom-most grape. It’s sweet, the seeds chewy and even sweeter.

“Aren’t you technically stealing?” Leslie asks. The trees may not be planted as far apart as they could be, but that’s no reason for Leslie to be standing this close to him.

Joe pops two more grapes into his mouth and throws a third at Leslie. “What’s Will going to do to me?”

At the end of the rows, on the other side of the vineyard, is a hill overlooking the rest of the countryside. Joe isn’t sure where the Schofield property ends and the rest of the world begins, but it doesn’t matter. Everything here is wild and free, nothing like the jagged confines of the city.

This is the moment that it hits him: he misses home. Not London, but _home_ home. He misses the grass and trees and clouds and blue sky. He misses standing in the middle of a field, looking up, and seeing stars. He misses being sixteen-years-old, back when time was an illusion and not a reality. Above all, he misses…

Joe turns to study Leslie’s profile, raking his eyes over Leslie’s features that are starting to glow orange against the sky. Even back then, when all he wanted was to look at Leslie every day, he never actually looked too closely for fear of being found out, did he? That was his biggest mistake, assuming that attention could only be either a product of the mind or of the heart. Standing here now, with a gorgeous setting sun in the distance that’s wrapping the boundless land in its embrace, Joe finds that there’s only one thing he wants to focus on. His mind tells him so, as does his heart. He finally understands—when the two are in agreement, that’s how it feels to give something, or someone, his full devotion.

It’s a shame that it took him ten years to figure this out because Leslie is worth the attention, worth the devotion.

“It’s not so bad, being here with you,” Joe hears himself say.

The wind must be too loud to properly carry his words over to Leslie, because Leslie asks, “What?”

Joe shakes his head. If Leslie wasn’t meant to hear it, then so be it. He looks back out across the hill. “It’s beautiful.”

After the sun crawls a little closer to the horizon and the wind dies down, Leslie says, “It is, isn’t it?”

Joe glances in Leslie’s direction again, only this time, Leslie is looking right back at him.

“What?” Joe asks, even though he heard Leslie perfectly fine.

It’s Leslie’s turn to shake his head. “Nothing. Want to head back? It’s nearing six.”

If Joe were to be honest with himself, really be honest, he’d rather spend the rest of the evening on this hillside, where the edge of the vineyard meets the edge of the world. He doesn’t need whatever fancy five-course meal Will’s put together, doesn’t need the suite or the silky bed, just needs a handful of grapes and Leslie to keep him company.

“Sure,” Joe says. The last grape is mushy from being clenched in his hand, so he tosses it away along with the stem, letting them be carried off by the wind. “Let’s go.”

~

Here’s what Joe is thinking as he’s standing in the shower and allowing the water to clear away the smell of dirt off his skin.

First, Leslie is, without a doubt, the boy that Joe fell for ten years ago, but now a man. Leslie’s still the same pain in the arse, the same bastard with a penchant for making things more difficult than they need to be, but he’s also attentive. Joe runs a hand across his forehead, pausing at the spot where Leslie pressed a finger against his temple, then touches a finger to his lips, where the taste of wine still lingers from the reception. Leslie does these little things that don’t seem like much, but when they add up, it paints a picture of Leslie that’s oddly sweet.

Second, Joe is, all things considered, having a good time. The vineyard is undoubtedly nice, but if he was stuck here with anybody else, he’s certain that he wouldn’t have been able to make it past the front lobby. In all honesty, he forgot sometime in the middle of the reception, right after Leslie brought over their drinks and food, that this was all a con. _That_ part of their relationship might be fake, but everything else feels natural, from the way Leslie teases him to all the little nice things he does. Leslie is able to unlock something that Joe hasn’t allowed himself to be in a long time: happy, without a care in the world. It feels real.

Maybe that’s a foolish thing to think, but Joe really wants to believe that not all of it is pretend—which is why he’s now thinking of the third thing: that the strange sensation that’s making a home inside his chest must arise from the fact that he and Leslie are slowly working back to something like friends. Despite their history, he’s not sure if they were ever truly friends before. Now? Perhaps they have a shot at it.

If Joe were to try telling this to Leslie, what would Leslie say? It shouldn’t matter what Joe thinks as long as Leslie doesn’t find out about it, but… a part of Joe wants Leslie to find out. That’s probably even more foolish than believing any of this is real.

Joe squirts out a generous amount of the shampoo and starts scrubbing at his scalp with it, only to pause and sniff at the bubbles forming in his hand. They smell nothing like roses—as a matter of fact, they smell like complete shit compared to what Leslie smelled like earlier. Either Leslie brought his own shampoo, or Joe just likes the way that Leslie smells after a shower. Joe doesn’t recall seeing Leslie bringing any toiletries with him into the bathroom though, so, it has to be the latter.

This is not a useful piece of information for the universe to thrust upon him right now.

He switches the water from hot to cold, forcing the thought away before he finds himself in a situation that requires him to stay in the shower for longer than necessary. After he calms down, he steps out, towels himself off, and carefully puts himself back together: he pulls on his pants, buttons up his white dress shirt, and throws on his black suit.

He picks up the last item, a black tie, and is in the middle of assembling a Windsor knot as he does every morning before work when he exits the bathroom and finds Leslie bracketed by the sunset pouring in through the blinds. As if that wasn’t enough, Leslie is leaning against the desk, hip cocked out, and dressed in a pink blazer along with a white collared shirt underneath. The top two buttons are popped, and Leslie’s hair is slicked back with one curl resting like a taunt over his forehead. He’s clean-shaven too, and even though there’s a whole king-size bed between them, Joe smells a faint waft of cologne mixed in with the rose aroma from before.

Did Leslie do all that in the kitchenette? Or is there a second bathroom tucked away that Joe doesn’t know about? What the _fuck._

Leslie looks up from his phone. “What?”

“What?” Joe echoes faintly.

“You just said—” Leslie furrows his eyebrows. “Never mind. Are you ready?”

This is the second time that Joe’s lost control over his vocal cords today. It appears that he doesn’t know how to use his limbs anymore either because he can’t move his arms or legs.

Leslie pushes off the desk with a thrust of his hips that is _way_ too obscene for this time of day, then makes his way over to Joe until he’s standing a few paces away. It’s like the big bang is bringing life to the universe all over again except this time, it’s happening inside Joe’s chest, because one look at all of that, and—

Joe wants to throw Leslie onto the bed, rip Leslie’s shirt clean open, and run a hand up Leslie’s chest, neck, all the way through his hair until Leslie flushes the same pink as his blazer. He wants to hook both arms around Leslie’s shoulders, intertwine his legs with Leslie’s, and grind down onto Leslie’s cock until they’re both hard and leaking through their trousers. He wants to mess Leslie up, wants to ride and blow and fuck him until Leslie’s disheveled like the way Joe found him at Waterloo Station.

“I thought for sure you’d know how to tie a proper tie,” Leslie says.

“I do,” Joe says, snapping out of his reverie. How dare Leslie imply that he doesn’t?

Leslie tilts his head. The curl on his forehead bounces once from the movement. Joe tears his eyes away from it, trying to focus on the rest of Leslie’s face instead. That’s also a mistake because Joe is reminded once again of how nice a face it really is. Those red lips, those dark eyes, the slicked-back hair—it’s all too much. Add in the fact that Leslie decided to keep his ear piercing in, and Joe is ready to drop to his knees for multiple reasons.

Leslie is still looking at him. Looking, and waiting.

“Something on my face?” Joe manages to get out.

Leslie points to Joe’s neck. “That’s a mess.”

It is in fact not a mess, but Leslie pulls Joe gently in by the tie anyway, undoing the knot and upending Joe’s gravity along with it. Then, Leslie redoes it for him, puts him back together, all without uttering a single word—he just keeps near, keeps both eyes fixed on Joe’s. If Leslie were to pull a little harder, their chests would be touching, and all it would take is another few centimetres before their lips are—

“Done,” Leslie says, stepping back. He bites his lip, then waves a hand. “You still with me?”

 _Always_.

“Where else would I be?” Joe asks. He looks down at the perfect Windsor knot sitting against his neck. “I’ve never seen you wear a tie before, let alone tie one. Why do you know how to do it?”

“Practice.”

“Why practice something you don’t need?”

Leslie shrugs. “Maybe it’s not for me.”

“Who’s it for, then?” Joe asks.

“I don’t know yet.” Leslie stuffs his hands into his pockets and regards Joe with steady eyes. “Though I do have somebody in mind.”

Joe stares at that nice face and tries to decide if he’s brave enough to ask the question that’s forming in his throat.

“For now,” Leslie continues, before Joe can get a syllable out, “it seems my practice came through for you, so it hasn’t been a total waste of time.” He steps back some more, hesitates, then offers an elbow.

Joe takes it without thinking, letting himself be pulled out of the room.

~

Dinner is, quite frankly, a much more lavish affair than it needs to be. Joe got a peek at the dining hall when they arrived earlier that day, but at that point, the tables and chairs were pushed against the walls with a tarp draped over them. He couldn’t imagine the staff working the sort of magic that’d be required to transform the room into the type of place found in storybooks or films—the type of place that Tom likes.

Turns out, he was wrong. The ten tables are now arranged in a hexagonal pattern throughout the room, with four chairs tucked under each of them. Thick tablecloths cover the table’s surfaces, alternating in pink and blue hues that match the colours of the original invitations. Spotless plates and cutlery are placed at every seat, along with tall wine glasses that glimmer underneath the chandelier.

Ah, and that’s another thing—there’s a fucking chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Where the hell did they drag that out from? Furthermore, additional lights have been installed, with full remote control that must be hidden in a different room because at this moment, the room darkens until it’s dimly lit, allowing for an atmosphere that’s very much like the kind you’d find at a fancy French restaurant.

Joe doesn’t know why he expected anything else. This is Will and Tom’s engagement party, after all. Leave it to Will to pull out all the stops.

“He really is a rich bastard,” Leslie comments when they locate their name cards at a table near the back corner, the same one that the couple of the hour will also be seated at.

“A rich bastard who loves my brother,” Joe says, taking his seat and biting down a laugh when Leslie glances around the room in disdain. “Suck it up. It’s only for an hour or so.”

Leslie props his chin up with his hand, elbow leaning against the table, and turns to look at Joe. “I don’t endure this for just anyone, you know.”

Joe’s heart skips a beat, so Joe reminds Leslie, reminds himself, “You didn’t have to come. I never forced you into this.”

“I’m aware,” Leslie says. “You’re hard to say no to, though.”

Obviously, Leslie is simply leaning into the situation, but if Leslie keeps saying things like this, Joe will have no choice but to start believing in them. Luckily, he’s saved by Will and Tom joining them at the table. The churning in his stomach can wait.

“What’s going on, lovebirds?” Tom announces the moment he sits down, punching Joe in the shoulder while pouring himself a glass of wine.

“Love, please watch where you’re dumping that,” Will says. He pushes Tom’s glass until it’s centred under the bottle’s opening.

Tom glances over, grinning sheepishly when he notices the droplets of purple dripping down the side of the glass and staining the otherwise pristine tablecloth. “Oops.”

Will sighs. “What’s the point of taking all that time to pick out decorations if you’re going to mess them up before people can see them?”

“They saw them,” Tom sulks, eyes flitting over to Joe and Leslie.

Will smiles, then exchanges his own glass with Tom’s because of course, he can’t stay annoyed at Tom for long. “Here,” he says, taking the bottle and pouring until the glass is full.

Tom beams. “Thanks, babe.”

Joe watches Leslie watch the two of them, and his heart constricts in a strange manner when Leslie’s expression changes into one containing a shade of melancholy. He accidentally stares for a beat too long because Leslie turns at that moment, allowing their eyes to meet across their own empty glasses.

Leslie looks as if he wants to say something. His shoulders hike up, his eyes dart away before shifting back, and his lips press together briefly before opening—

Joe tears his gaze away to focus again on Will. “I’ll get one of the staff members to clean this up,” he says, already pushing his chair back and standing up.

Will looks up in surprise. “You don’t need to do that. It’s just a small spill. And you’re a guest, you shouldn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Joe says. He locates the nearest staff member—all the way across the room on the other side—then makes a direct beeline to her, though it takes some zigzagging because people keep trickling in to take their seats. He points to their table when he gets there to explain the situation, and even at this distance, Leslie’s body language stands out. Leslie is no longer propping himself up in a lazy manner—in fact, his arms are unfolded, his stance is open, and he looks rather relaxed while talking to Will and Tom. One might even say he looks unguarded.

A pang of jealousy wells up in Joe’s chest, which is ridiculous, but Joe feels it all the same. Is Leslie only uncomfortable being in this room if Joe is next to him?

“Sir?” the woman asks. She’s holding an extra tablecloth. At some point, she must’ve left to retrieve it.

“Sorry,” Joe says. “After you.”

He follows the woman back across the room, pace brisk but in no hurry to get back. He’s still about a table away when it comes, Leslie unmistakably saying, “I’ve always fancied him.”

Joe freezes. What?

“I knew _that_. That’s old news,” Tom says. Casually, like it’s a fact that everybody should have memorised by now.

“You said you didn’t know about them until Joe told you,” Will interjects.

Tom tilts his head at Will in light irritation. “Yeah, but that’s not the same as having eyes and seeing them wanting to fuck each other back then.”

“You were twelve,” Will says, unimpressed. “What did you know?”

“Younger brothers always know,” Tom says. “It’s one of our special powers.”

“I’m still here,” Leslie says, though he doesn’t sound angry. In fact, he sounds… fond?

“You still haven’t told me how it happened though,” Tom says, turning back to Leslie. Tom’s got that investigative demeanor about him again, mode switched on like he’s got a mission to accomplish, putting his skills to work.

“There’s not much to tell,” Leslie says—also casually, like he knows what Tom is trying to come after, and he’s readying his own tactics to combat it. “He rang me up. He asked me out. I said yes.”

And— _what?_ That’s not the story they decided on.

Joe closes the rest of the distance, arriving just in time to hear Leslie add, “He’s always been my weak spot.”

“Even though it’s been years?” Tom asks.

Leslie looks up over Tom’s head, like the moon rising to eclipse the sun—a rare alignment, once every eighteen months, twice every three years. Joe unconsciously hitches his breath, holding it mid-inhale, waiting for whatever lie Leslie has prepared for that.

“It’s because it’s been years,” Leslie says, uttering every single word as if they’re meant for Joe’s ears only.

Tom grins. “As simple as that, huh?”

“As simple as that,” Leslie agrees, eyes still fixed on Joe, pupils glowing like a ring of fire—how are they doing that? “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say. Wouldn’t you say, darling?”

For some reason, it’s the usage of the pet name that makes Joe’s stomach twist again, but not in a good way. Right—this is an act. It doesn’t matter what story they spin, as long as they spin it well.

“Of course,” Joe says, taking his seat between Leslie and Tom. Leslie’s drinking out of his own wineglass now, attention fully turned away. The eclipse is over.

If Tom senses the shift in tension between them, he doesn’t comment on it. He merely pulls on Will’s sleeve and asks, “When are they going to bring out the food?”

As if on cue, the staff begins entering one by one with carts loaded with dishes of all shapes and sizes. Joe has never been so thankful to see food in his entire life because it means Tom will have something to say for the next hour, or however long dinner officially lasts. Joe stays quiet during the meal, letting Tom flood the silence with compliments for every dish that’s placed in front of them.

Leslie is pretty quiet too. Joe suspects he’s taking any opportunity he can to not talk.

After dessert, Will flags down one of the staff members to whisper something in her ear. She nods with a smile, then says something inaudible into her mouthpiece. A few seconds later, the lights change into an array of deep purple, with a few scattered bulbs of orange here and there flickering like candles. Then, a slow song begins to play over the speakers.

Will holds out a hand to Tom. “Join me?”

Tom’s smile is painted across Tom’s face from one rosy cheek to the other as Tom allows Will to pull him to the middle of the room like a knight escorting a prince. Underneath the dimmed lights of the dining hall, with colours spinning around them like stars, Will and Tom look as if they’re living out an eternity in the stretch of only a few minutes as Tom drops his head to Will’s shoulder and Will wraps his arms around Tom. They rotate slowly, out of sync with the beat of the song, but Joe has a feeling that the music isn’t what’s dictating their rhythm—one look at the two of them and it’s clear they’re living by the rules of their own hearts.

When the song ends and leads to the next, Will doesn’t look away, keeps his eyes on Tom, looking at him like he’s willing to accompany Tom to the ends of the Earth and beyond. And when Tom finally lifts his head, Joe sees the way Tom looks back at Will in a manner that indicates Tom will always lead as long as Will is willing to follow. Will dips his head to kiss Tom deeply on the lips, then rests his forehead against Tom’s—they stay like that for the rest of the second song, and onward to the next, and the next, and the next.

Joe is lost in the trance of Will and Tom’s orbit. He doesn’t know how many songs have passed by before a tap on his shoulder makes him break.

“You look like you’re about to float away,” Leslie says. He has a hand extended out like half of an incomplete puzzle, like Leslie expects Joe to deliver the missing piece.

Joe looks up in confusion, not quite getting it. “You want to dance?”

“Only if it’s with you,” Leslie says.

Joe surveys the room. Most of the guests have finished dining and have followed Will and Tom’s example in dance, whereas some remain seated at their tables. What matters, though, is that nobody is paying attention to them. If they were to join the couples in the middle of the room, however…

“People will see,” Joe says.

“Isn’t that the point?” Leslie asks, hand unwavering. “To make people see?”

Well, when Leslie puts it that way…

Joe takes Leslie’s hand for the third time that day, letting Leslie lead him to a corner of the floor. He doesn’t know why, because he’s never enjoyed dancing of any type, never felt compelled to attend the company functions. He’s out of his element, to say the least—out of his element, and feeling rather ridiculous. Where do his hands go? Behind Leslie’s neck? Around Leslie’s waist? And where is he supposed to look? Most people look at each other, obviously, but that seems too intimate for their situation, even if that’s the goal of all of this—

Leslie must sense his unease, because he guides one of Joe’s hands to his shoulder, then takes Joe’s other hand into his own.

“I was going to let you lead, but that doesn’t seem like the best idea,” Leslie says.

Joe smiles. “‘Let’ me lead? As if I’ve ever let you do anything.”

“You’d be surprised,” Leslie says. He draws Joe in close with an arm around Joe’s waist— _line on a hook_ , Joe remembers—then begins spinning them in tandem with the music. From Leslie’s confident steps, it’s clear that Leslie is the opposite of Joe in this domain and knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Did you only invite me to dance so you could show off your moves?” Joe asks.

“Are you that easily impressed?” Leslie asks.

Joe shrugs. “I told you before. You’re impressive.”

As something shifts inside Leslie’s gaze, Joe is, all of a sudden, realising how private this moment really is. There are dozens of others around them, but they’re specks in the galaxy, nothing that will change the course of time. Joe thinks about Will and Tom, about the way Tom was wrapped in Will’s arms the way Joe is wrapped in Leslie’s now. The only difference is that the way Will looked at Tom…

...Is really similar to the way Leslie is looking at Joe now. Is this Leslie pretending again? Is this Leslie putting on a show? For the rest of the guests, for Will and Tom… for Joe?

If Joe were to hold a mirror up to his own face, would he find the same expression as the one Tom directed at Will? And if Joe were to lean in now, would he be able to stop at just a press of foreheads and resist the kiss?

Leslie licks his lips, and—

No. This is all pretend. This is an act. This isn’t real.

Joe leans back and removes his hand from Leslie’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

Leslie furrows his eyebrows. “For what?”

Joe tries to withdraw his other hand that’s clutched in Leslie’s, hoping that Leslie can’t hear how loudly his heart is pounding. “For—”

Right then, a couple knocks into Joe’s back, and Joe doesn’t regain his balance fast enough before he falls completely into Leslie’s embrace and kisses Leslie on the side of his mouth.

Oh, _God_.

“Shit,” Joe stammers as he scrambles to push himself off. A fluttering feeling reemerges in his stomach, the same as the one he got when Leslie crowded him against the doorframe during the tour. “Sorry, that was—”

Leslie’s eyes darken, and—fuck, of course, Leslie is angry. Leslie went to all that trouble to kiss him in front of the hotel so that they wouldn’t have to do any of this again. This shouldn’t even be happening, and now, Leslie’s going to walk out on him and abandon him in the middle of the room, Leslie’s going to—

Leslie’s going to steady his arm around Joe’s waist and clasp Joe’s hand even more tightly. Joe feels his world tilt on its axis as Leslie hauls him in once again, moon eclipsing the sun, this time for a deeper kiss directly on the mouth. And Joe is—

Really confused. Is someone watching? Is Leslie doing this because Joe reacted too rashly and made people doubt their act? Is this why Leslie is forcing Joe’s mouth open with his tongue and licking at his lips like he wants to—

Leslie has always kissed like he’s planning to seduce not just the person he’s kissing, but everybody around him for good measure. And that’s why he’s here, right? To seduce other people into thinking that what he feels for Joe is real?

 _Remind me to not come to your rescue again_ , Leslie had said.

Well, he doesn’t need Leslie’s rescue.

Joe shoves Leslie back with as much grace he can manage. No need to make a scene, after all.

Leslie looks dazed for a few seconds before his eyes focus. Joe expects Leslie’s face to return to its signature apathetic or devil-may-care expression, not morph into this crinkling of eyes and nose and mouth that could be easily misinterpreted as concern.

“Joe?” Leslie asks, and—

Is that panic in Leslie’s voice? Joe can’t tell if Leslie is concerned because Joe is ruining their charade or if Leslie is actually concerned _for_ him. That’s the last straw that causes tears to fall from Joe’s eyes.

“Joe?” Leslie asks again, reaching both hands out. “I’m so sorry—”

Leslie is _sorry_.

“Me too,” Joe says. He turns around and bolts out of the dining hall as fast as he can.

~

Joe really wishes he never rang Leslie up. Any other person in his contacts would’ve been better because nobody else occupies their own pocket of space in Joe’s mind. Nobody else has the ability to make Joe feel like a sixteen-year-old again, nerves strung high and defences stripped away by red lips and dark eyes. Nobody else has the ability to dredge up ten years of repressed feelings and get Joe to fancy them again, to fall head over heels and land completely arse up—nobody else, aside from Leslie. Ellis Leslie, with his cigarette smoke and pierced ear and looks of concern that send lightning coursing through Joe’s blood.

They’d collided once before, ten years ago. Joe recalls Leslie kissing him like he was planning to seduce not just him but everybody else that was looking—but nobody else had been looking, had they? It was just him, Leslie, and the bright lights of the football field. There were no spectators, and Joe was drunk on stolen alcohol from the afterparty, on victory from delivering the winning goal, and on the desire to finally kiss the boy he’d been fancying.

Leslie was there amidst the crowd on the bleachers. Joe doesn’t know how he could see that far out, but when he looked up to trace the curve of the football in the air as it left his cleat, he could see Leslie staring back at him, as clearly as Joe could see the ball swish into the back of the net. It was a sign. It must have been. Stars only align once every lifetime and all that, right? And so, when Joe found Leslie lingering behind on the field hours after it had long been cleared out, looking every bit as ephemeral underneath the night sky as Leslie did every day, Joe couldn’t not march up to him and kiss him.

Leslie had kissed back, and Joe had felt those butterflies—the same ones that he now has no choice but to admit have been chasing after him, making a home inside of him this entire trip.

Joe doesn’t recall much, but he does recall the drunken kisses, the taxi ride to Leslie’s flat—the next morning waking up in Leslie’s bed alone, wondering why Leslie trusted him enough to leave his belongings at his disposal, and yet not enough to stay. Above all, he recalls the photo of his football team that he must’ve brought along because it was unfolded and propped up on Leslie’s nightstand with Leslie’s number scribbled on the back.

Maybe if Leslie hadn’t kept denying his calls, hadn’t avoided him like the plague every instance that Joe tried to talk to him afterward—maybe if it hadn’t been two weeks from the end of the semester and Leslie hadn’t graduated and moved away for university, it all would’ve led to a better ending. Maybe Joe wouldn’t be standing outside on the balcony now, shivering in the cool summer breeze and hating himself for being such a bloody idiot for being so goddamn predictable.

Maybe, if he was a little braver, he would be able to face Leslie, who’s leaning against the railing next to him.

“Party’s over?” Joe asks. The vineyard is rather lovely at night. There are enough lights shining off of the hotel property to cast a glow across the acres and acres of grapes, dragging out shadows against the dirt.

“Party was over the moment you left,” Leslie says.

And Joe knows that Leslie doesn’t mean anything by it, but the anger boils up, hot like the lava of the sun. “You were the one who left.”

Leslie doesn’t respond, so either he has no clue what Joe is referring to, or he knows exactly what Joe is talking about.

Joe sighs, a heavy heave that shakes his body. “That’s not fair. You didn’t owe me anything.”

“But I did,” Leslie says. “I still do.”

“You said that over the phone, too. But, I—” Joe shakes his head. “I don’t know what you mean.” Leslie didn’t— _doesn’t_ owe him anything. Joe’s the one who made this ridiculous request. He’s the one who imposed the weekend on Leslie and forced him to be a part of this farce. He’s—

“We never slept together that night.”

Joe runs his mind over those words, then finally turns. Leslie is looking back with concern in his eyes again—concern, and guilt, and regret.

“I woke up in your bed,” Joe says.

“Yes,” Leslie agrees.

“We made out.”

“Yes.”

“We—” Joe swallows, digging into the deep recesses of his mind to conjure up an image, any image he can remember from that night. Leslie’s skin on his, warm and dangerous and safe all at once—were those dreams, then? Has he been caged by fantasy not just today, but for the past ten years, ever since that day long ago?

“We made out,” Leslie says, likely more for Joe’s benefit than his own. “But that’s it.”

“Then—” Joe shakes his head again. “I don’t understand. Why do you owe me?”

“Because you punched out the lights of a prick who deserved it.”

Joe looks down at his hand, then curls it into a fist. What is Leslie talking about? Joe went directly to the field after the party. It was in their locker room—their coach had left after giving them his standard post-game pep talk, something about anniversary night with his wife, and not one second later did someone pull out the stash of beer they’d hidden earlier that night. It was—which teammate was it?

It doesn’t matter. Joe was high off of the cheap beer and the endorphins and adrenaline, was feeling really damn good about himself and felt like he could accomplish anything. Two more weeks and he wouldn’t have been able to see Leslie in the halls anymore. If he wanted to do something about it, it would’ve had to be then, when his recklessness was dialed up and he was stupid enough to satisfy any impulse, fulfill any desire, take on any dare. It made no sense, thinking that Leslie would be there, but Joe wanted to—he wanted—

“I wanted to lie down in the middle of the field with you and look up at the stars,” Joe remembers.

Leslie was there, but he wasn’t alone.

“You were there,” Joe continues. “And there was—there was somebody else—” Who was it?

“It doesn’t matter who it was,” Leslie says. “I didn’t even know his name. Some sod from the year between ours. But he was saying… unkind things, and I was going to leave it alone because pieces of shit like that aren’t worth my time. Then you appeared.”

“And I decked him,” Joe says, blinking once.

Leslie laughs. It’s a nice sound. “And you decked him.”

 _Unkind things_. That sounds familiar, but it’s not enough yet. Not enough to…

“What sorts of unkind things?” Joe asks.

“About my father. He was in the military. Missing in action, so they said. But mostly about my mother, about how she must’ve had to… take on extra jobs to make ends meet.” Leslie explains it all like he doesn’t mind explaining it again, not if it’s Joe. “You know how it is.”

A memory tugs at Joe’s mind, of telling Leslie about… “I told you about my own father. About my own mother.”

Leslie nods. “I think that’s why you punched the prick. You understood what it was like to grow up with a single mother. Our circumstances might’ve been different, but… I appreciated it.”

That’s one mystery solved, then. But, Leslie’s still withdrawn into his shell, still too far away despite being a kiss’s distance away.

“Why did you kiss me tonight?” Joe asks.

Leslie doesn’t seem surprised by the question, so he was probably expecting it at some point. “Because I was always looking at you.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Back then.”

Joe watches Leslie breathe in and out, a steady rhythm. Is Leslie pretending even now, or has he simply become so well-practiced at hiding his feelings that it’s no longer pretending to him?

“I kissed you,” Joe says. “After the game.”

“You were drunk,” Leslie says. “I took you back to my flat but that was it.”

“Then why did you leave your number?”

Leslie looks away in the direction of the vineyard. “Because I was eighteen and stupid. And when you kept ringing me, I—that’s when it hit me that I had no idea if you felt the same without the alcohol. I know what it’s like to feel things only when drunk.”

“And tonight?” Joe asks. He’s surprised at how calm his voice is despite his chest fluttering with nerves and his stomach twisting inside and out. “Why did you apologise?”

Leslie bites his lip. “You trusted me to go through this day with you, and when I kissed you, I—I violated that trust and took advantage of you. I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you feel things that you don’t really feel.”

“‘Make’ me feel things I don’t really feel?” Joe asks.

“I told you,” Leslie says, dejected. “I like to think I pay attention to all the right things.”

Leslie is so close, just a hair’s length away from their elbows touching. He’s so close that if Joe was brave enough to reach a finger out, line on a hook, he could hold Leslie’s hand, realign their orbits.

Maybe, it’s time to be brave. Maybe, it’s time to be honest.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Joe says. “Because I don’t think you’ve been paying attention at all.”

Leslie flinches, turning to remove himself from the balcony, but Joe is faster than him this time. He shifts his body until Leslie is trapped between his arms and against the railing, blocking Leslie’s path into the hotel room.

“Don’t play games with me,” Leslie says, head tilted down and eyes darted away. He’s always been shorter than Joe, but this is the first time that Leslie looks small, small as a single star in the vast galaxy.

That’s a matter of perspective, though. It all depends on how large the galaxy itself is, where they draw the bounds. They’re free to do that themselves, aren’t they?

“Let me finish,” Joe says. He senses Leslie about to open his mouth to retort again, so Joe denies him the chance by stepping closer into Leslie’s space. When he’s sure that Leslie’s going to stay put, Joe says, “If you were really paying attention, both ten years ago and today, you would’ve noticed that I was also looking back. I’ve _been_ looking back.”

Leslie raises his head, gaze still fixed on something behind Joe, armour dropped slightly but not all the way.

Joe takes in a deep breath and adds, “Actually, I don’t think I ever stopped looking. I just got lost somewhere along the way.”

Leslie’s eyes glass over, going dark. “You don’t know what you’re saying. This—All of this, it’s not real. You’re confused.”

God, why does Leslie have to play the noble knight now of all times?

“You might be right,” Joe says, his voice wavering. He refuses to let his determination waver along with it. “But you might be wrong. I don’t know. All I know is that I finally know the answer to your question.”

“What question?” Leslie asks.

“Earlier today, you asked if you make me nervous.”

Leslie looks like he wars with himself for a good while before he forces himself to answer. “And do I?”

“I’ll show you,” Joe says. He releases his grip from the railing and covers both of Leslie’s hands with his own, pulling them closer until Leslie’s palms are resting over the part of his chest where his heart is threatening to beat out of his rib cage.

“Does that answer it for you?” Joe asks, welcoming the butterflies sinking into his stomach.

Leslie’s eyes widen. “You—”

Joe smiles. Leslie has always been one step ahead of him in all aspects of life thus far. Now that Joe has the upper hand, it’s hard not to feel endeared by it.

“Confused or not,” Joe says, curling his fingers until they’re digging into Leslie’s, “this is real.”

Leslie finally, _finally_ looks up.

“My heart knows it,” Joe says. And, because they both need to hear it, he says, “I know it.”

When his mind and his heart are in agreement, that’s how it feels to give someone his full devotion. He felt it before, and he feels it now, but even if his soul is on the line, that’s the most that he can offer—he can only hope that Leslie meets him halfway.

A millisecond is all Joe is allowed to worry over it before he’s pulled in by his tie, lips crashing down on Leslie’s along with his entire being.

It’s nothing like any of their kisses from before. This one is messy. Their bodies don’t fit together as nicely as they did when they first arrived at the hotel or during the dance. The angle is all wrong, and Leslie lands more on the side of Joe’s mouth rather than fully on Joe’s lips. Despite all that, this is Joe’s favourite kiss they’ve shared by far. There’s no alcohol to cloud their minds, no younger brother or future brother-in-law to put on a show for, no accident to blame it on—it’s real.

Leslie breaks the kiss at one point, but Joe chases after him, pressing Leslie deeper into the railing until he’s sure that it’s going to leave a bruise on Leslie’s lower back. It sends a chill up Joe’s spine, knowing that Leslie, a person who’s always wanted control over every aspect of his life, is allowing Joe the push. He wants more of it. He wants—

“There’s a perfectly good bed in there,” Joe rushes out when he forces himself back. “Would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Leslie responds by yanking on Joe’s tie again, hard. The knot tightens around Joe’s neck, which will also leave a bruise—but if that means it’ll burn a mark around his throat to match the mark on Leslie’s back, then he’ll gladly endure the pain.

“Looks like we’re on the same page, then,” Leslie says. His voice is steady and smug, but there’s a brief flicker of hesitancy that passes through his eyes, as if he can’t believe this is truly happening.

Joe wraps both arms around Leslie’s neck, drawing him closer. Line on a hook. “Fucking finally, huh?”

Leslie laughs, a low sound that vibrates against Joe’s chest. Joe has no choice but to smile and kiss Leslie again, a soft and gentle press of lips.

“I’m at your mercy,” Joe says when they part. “Why don’t you do what you want with me?”

Leslie’s eyes go dark again, this time out of lust instead of caution. Joe braces himself for impact as Leslie surges forward for another kiss, pushing Joe inside the suite. Every step back leads to another swipe of Leslie’s tongue against Joe’s, and Joe is ready to combust from the heat of their mouths alone until he finally finds himself giving in to gravity and toppling backward onto the bed.

Leslie quickly crawls after and over him, pinning Joe to place with one hand wrapped around both of Joe’s wrists above Joe’s head and a predatory look in his eyes.

“Do you know what you look like right now?” Leslie asks.

“I don’t,” Joe says, letting his legs fall open so that Leslie can slot his body against his. “Tell me.”

“You look…” Leslie snakes his other hand up Joe’s chest, pulling Joe’s shirt collar free of his tie, and popping open the top button with a flick of his fingers. Joe breathes in sharply at the sudden release of pressure, letting out a light gasp. Leslie smiles, then dips his head down and presses a kiss to Joe’s collarbone, just heavy enough for Joe to feel a graze of teeth and tongue.

“You look gorgeous,” Leslie says. He releases Joe’s wrists and reparks his hand next to Joe’s neck, covering Joe’s tattoo and digging his thumb into the pulse point below Joe’s throat.

“And?” Joe asks, tilting his head back.

Leslie traces his lips down Joe’s chest as he unbuttons the rest of Joe’s shirt, pressing a kiss to every crevice of Joe’s skin until he reaches Joe’s stomach and pulls Joe’s shirt out of his trousers. Leslie palms at the front of Joe’s erection, squeezing once before lifting his head. His pupils are blown wide with a dangerous glimmer in them—if only it could swallow Joe whole.

“And,” Leslie says, squeezing harder at Joe’s cock until he draws a filthy moan from Joe’s throat, “you look like a bloody fucking tease.”

Joe laughs, airy and breathless. “You’re the one who was eye-fucking me during the dance.”

“You were very distracting,” Leslie says. “You still are.” He pushes down Joe’s trousers, releasing Joe’s cock from Joe’s pants. It’s a little embarrassing how obviously hard Joe is already, but considering that he’s here on this bed on a sunlit evening, with Leslie suspended above him and looking like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, there are worse situations to be in.

“You going to show me a good time?” Joe asks, thrusting up slightly, bouncing his cock against Leslie’s hand.

Leslie runs a hand up Joe’s thigh, like he’s mapping a terrain for his touches alone. “Only if you behave.”

Joe grins. “Make me.”

Leslie narrows his eyes, pulls Joe’s trousers and pants completely off, then pins Joe’s legs further apart with his knees. “You’re going to regret that.”

“Highly unlikely,” Joe says. He grabs blindly at the nightstand until his fingers find the bottle of lube, then tosses it at Leslie’s chest.

“We’ll see about that.” Leslie shrugs off his blazer and rolls up his sleeves in neat folds, first his right, then his left. He pops open the bottle and squirts a generous amount of lube onto his fingers—slowly, like he doesn’t have Joe spread open, Joe’s cock and hole exposed.

“Come on,” Joe says impatiently. “I don’t have all—”

Leslie pushes a finger in without warning, sending a spike that’s about to burn Joe clean through his skull.

“Fuck,” Joe gasps out. It’s tighter than he expected, more than when he uses his own fingers.

“I told you you’d have to behave,” Leslie says as Joe lifts his head in dazed confusion. Then, Leslie lowers his head and takes Joe into his mouth, the same time that he pushes a second finger in.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Joe groans out again, thrusting up on reflex. His cock hits the back of Leslie’s throat, but Leslie either doesn’t have a gag reflex or is so well-practiced at going down on someone that he can take it all without it bothering him. Both thoughts make Joe’s cock harden even more, and it takes all of Joe’s self-control to not pin Leslie to the bed and fuck his throat to release.

Joe doesn’t know what to focus on, the way Leslie pumps and crooks his fingers—now three of them—inside him, or the way Leslie’s tongue swirls around the full length of his cock and at the tip, sucking him like Leslie’s only duty is to get Joe off. Joe is so close, all five senses overwhelming his consciousness, and he feels that warmth spread through his stomach and gut, preparing to spill deep into Leslie’s throat when Leslie withdraws his fingers and his mouth.

“What—?” Joe asks, mind hazy.

“It’s no fun if you come before I properly fuck you,” Leslie says.

Joe raises his head with all the energy he can muster. He nearly comes from the sight of Leslie kneeling between his legs—not because Leslie is now slicking himself up with the lube with languid flicks of his wrist, but because that’s when Joe sees it: the piercing lodged below the tip of Leslie’s cock.

Well, he wasn’t wrong—the more Leslie accessorises himself, the better he looks.

Leslie must catch the way Joe’s throat constricts because he follows Joe’s eyes to his own cock and laughs. “Imagine how I felt when I saw that tattoo around your neck.”

Joe swallows thickly, his mind flashing with increasingly graphic images of Leslie being stripped naked as foreign hands hold his cock steady to drive that piece of silver deep into Leslie’s flesh. Or, maybe Leslie pierced it himself? Did Leslie spread his legs open, cock displayed proudly out as he took himself in one hand and pierced the tip with the other? How many times has Leslie wanked himself off and pressed a finger there to deliver extra pain? How many times has Leslie driven that cock of his into somebody else? How many people have felt the dig of that metal deep inside them before Joe did? Whatever the case, this is a lot more than Joe had originally bargained for—the piercing, the imagery, the jealousy.

Leslie looks at him again, this time with something akin to concern in his eyes—probably because Joe has gone completely and utterly speechless.

“Is this okay?” Leslie asks. “I can—”

Leslie shifts slightly closer to the side of the bed, and—where is he going?

Joe cranes his neck as best as he can, just in time to see Leslie reaching towards the nightstand to grab a condom. Joe swats Leslie’s arm down without thinking, grabbing ahold of both of Leslie’s wrists and hauling him back in place.

Leslie looks down at him with a question mark written all over his face. “Joe?”

His name on Leslie’s tongue sends another shiver down Joe’s spine. “That’s not necessary.”

Leslie doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure? I shouldn’t have assumed in the first place. They’re there, let’s—”

“No,” Joe says, tightening his grip on Leslie’s wrists. “I want you to come inside me.”

Either the air conditioning is misbehaving again, or the temperature just rose a significant amount. Leslie is staring down at him like Joe’s grown a second head, and Joe resists the flush, pushing forward.

“I want you to come inside me,” Joe says again, louder and with a steeled glint in his eyes.

A smile begins to tug at Leslie’s lips. “I think we can arrange for that. Anything else?”

Joe’s body heats with an impulse, a desire, a dare. “I want…” Joe wraps his legs around Leslie’s waist and flips their bodies, hands still pressed to Leslie’s wrists. He rises up on his knees, positioning himself over Leslie’s cock.

“I want it like this,” Joe says. He gives Leslie a minute, waiting for him to refute. When Leslie stays silent, Joe sinks down with one smooth movement, slow and hard, until he feels Leslie deep inside, the tip and piercing pressed firm and tight against that spot. It doesn’t matter how many times Leslie thrust his fingers inside him, or how long Leslie worked him open for—nothing could’ve prepared Joe for the way Leslie’s cock is stretching him open until he thinks he’s going to be turned inside out. It feels so good. _Leslie_ feels so good. So, so good. So—

“Joe?” Leslie says, concern seeping into the lust behind his words again. “Are you still with me?”

Joe looks down. Leslie’s dark eyes tended to scare off those who didn’t know Leslie well. People always thought that Leslie was insensitive, apathetic, uncaring. It’s not true. Joe knows what those dark eyes really mean, knows what Leslie is really thinking—because he knows Leslie, as surely as he knows the sun sets and the moon rises.

“I’m always with you,” Joe says, the words tumbling out before his mind has finished forming them.

Leslie’s coarse palms are gripped gently at Joe’s hips. They’re reassuring and safe, like an anchor—like a grounding point. Joe tightens his hold around Leslie’s wrists, then ducks his head slightly.

“I’m always with you,” Joe repeats.

Leslie’s breath hitches and Joe rises briefly on his knees, relishing the slide of Leslie’s cock fighting against the motion, then sinks back down again with a twist of his hips. Leslie’s moan vibrates through his body to meet Joe where they’re connected, and Joe shivers, feeling his own cock twitch. So good. It feels so good.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since they left the balcony. If someone were to ask him for a report later on— _When did you begin? When did you end? How much time did it take?_ —he wouldn’t be able to answer. Time is irrelevant in this sacred space of theirs. He only knows Leslie’s cock, Leslie’s hands, Leslie’s dark eyes—he only knows how good Leslie makes him feel.

It wouldn’t be fair if Joe was the only one enjoying this, though.

“I want to make you feel good,” Joe says, grinding down. Leslie thrusts once to meet his movement, sending gravity upward inside Joe’s body, but it’s not enough. “What can I do to make you feel good?”

Leslie huffs out a breathless laugh. “You’re really asking that now?”

“I want to know. Do you want me to come from taking your cock? Do you want me to wank myself off? Do you want me to—” Joe suspends himself in the air again, Leslie’s cock barely grazing his hole. “—What do you want?”

Leslie tries to thrust back in, but Joe shoves him down with a bruised hold on his wrists, then lifts his hips even higher. His cock meets Leslie’s stomach, dragging a trail of pre-come down into Leslie’s belly button.

“I won’t know what you want until you say it,” Joe says, enjoying the look of frustration on Leslie’s face.

“You fucking bastard,” Leslie growls. “Alright, fine.”

Leslie turns those dark eyes on Joe, and Joe sees the instant they morph—they pin him to place, casting a spell on him like Medusa curses her prey to stone. But, Joe doesn’t feel trapped, not at all. In fact, it’s quite the opposite—he feels free.

“What I want,” Leslie says. “What I want is for you to fuck yourself on my cock while you touch yourself, all without my help. I want you to take everything I give you until your hole is dripping. You’ll come over me, and then you’ll clean every last drop up with that pretty mouth of yours. You’ll do all that with my cock in your arse, and then you will kiss me on the fucking mouth.”

Every word is part of a beautiful symphony to Joe’s ears, a lovely crescendo building up to the final note.

“And then, after all that,” Leslie continues, “I’m going to push your face down, haul your arse up, and suck myself out of you.”

Joe nearly collapses back onto Leslie’s cock, but he catches himself, though he honestly has no idea how because _Jesus fucking Christ_.

“Well?” Leslie asks, voice dangerously low. “Your answer?”

“Well,” Joe says, being careful to steady the waver in his words. He’s not going to give in that easily. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Leslie smiles, takes off his shirt completely, then settles comfortably into the pillow. Then, he waves his hands magnanimously in the air, as if giving Joe the permission to carry on—like the fucking bastard he is.

Oh… Joe is going to carry on. And he’s going to beat Leslie at his game.

Joe plants one hand on Leslie’s thigh, arches his back, takes himself into his other hand, and shoots Leslie his most innocent smile. As the entire spectrum of human emotion flickers through Leslie’s eyes, Joe sinks back down on Leslie’s cock with a smirk.

He rides Leslie’s cock at a pace that’s slightly behind the one he’s working up and down his own cock, enjoying the mismatch in tempo and friction. He knows how good it feels, knows how good he looks, knows the blankness in Leslie’s eyes is just a front—he knows there’s a hunger there waiting to be unleashed.

So, he draws it out, slows down his thrusts until every single twitch of Leslie’s cock inside of him is imprinted in his mind—until they become a timer of their own. Tick, tick, tick.

“You’re rather enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” Leslie asks, attempting to sound bored, but Joe knows him, knows the truth. There’s a tremble in Leslie’s shoulders, a furrow in his eyebrows, a quirk in his lips, and they all point to the same truth: _You are beautiful_.

And, if that’s all that Joe needs to stroke himself one last time and come, well… who’s going to tell?

He spills, releasing it all onto his hand, over Leslie’s pelvis, stomach, chest—some manages to land on Leslie’s lip, and when Leslie licks it clean, that’s when Joe feels Leslie thrust up, once, hard, and comes inside him.

Joe stays seated, flush against Leslie, relishing the waves of pleasure coursing through his body as he’s filled up to the point that he thinks it’ll overtake his throat.

“Thought you didn’t want to help,” Joe says after he catches his breath.

“I’m generous,” Leslie says. He’s panting too, but not as hard, and—well, Joe did put in most of the work. And, if he remembers correctly, he’s not finished yet, either.

Joe brackets either side of Leslie’s body with his arms, preparing to continue on his quest, but his elbows give in from not having regained enough energy.

“Are you alright?” Leslie asks, the concern jumping back in his voice. “Do you need to rest?”

Joe shakes his head.

“Don’t force yourself,” Leslie continues. His hands are back on Joe’s hips, rubbing gentle circles at the skin there. “You don’t have to do this if you—”

Joe leans down, shoves his tongue into the pool of come gathered on Leslie’s chest, and licks until the taste overwhelms his senses. He looks up, stares Leslie in the eyes, then swallows.

“I said I wanted to make you feel good,” Joe says. “Let me do that.”

He can tell that Leslie wants to retort, but Leslie’s lust must overpower his sensibility because Leslie stays silent. Joe makes a mental note— _Leslie likes it when he swallows_.

Joe lowers his head again and begins licking stripes all over Leslie’s skin, taking every drop of his own release onto his tongue, moving up and up until he’s at Leslie’s collarbone. The angle now makes Leslie’s cock shift inside him, and a moan escapes Joe’s throat before Joe can stop it.

“You feel so good inside me,” Joe says, lips pressed against Leslie’s neck. He swirls his tongue over Leslie’s throat before continuing upward.

Leslie groans and gasps out, “And you feel incredible around me. So full. So tight. Can’t wait until I throw you down, pry your cheeks apart, bury my face in that arse, and—”

Joe cuts him off with a swipe of tongue, and Leslie arches his back to meet him. Leslie’s cock hits deep inside Joe, brushing against that spot again, and Joe feels the familiar motion of Leslie’s cock hardening.

“You’re so easy,” Joe says. He runs his hands up Leslie’s arms and his neck, resting them at the base of Leslie’s scalp, then licks across Leslie’s bottom lip. “If I’d known you were so easy, I would’ve pushed you into the nearest stall in Waterloo Station and blown you right then and there.”

“I’ll make you pay for that,” Leslie says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Joe’s mouth.

“Yeah?” Joe asks, twisting his hips once.

Leslie groans, thrusting up again. “Yeah. Get off and I’ll show you.”

Joe rises up on his knees and winces when Leslie’s cock slides completely out. The dull sensation of Leslie’s come inside him keeping him filled up, keeping him company, is enough to make Joe’s cock twitch again.

“You like that, huh?” Leslie says, propping himself up with his elbows.

Joe can’t find the words right now, is too busy concentrating on keeping the come inside him. He nods.

Leslie’s eyes darken, soften, flare up all at the same time. It’s too much for Joe to deal with. He relaxes briefly and feels a warm trail of come escape down his inner right thigh.

“Shit,” Joe says, glancing down and clenching up again.

Leslie laughs with his entire body this time—laughs and laughs and laughs. When he doesn’t stop, Joe flicks him in the forehead.

“What’s gotten in you?” Joe asks.

Leslie lets out a final chuckle, then rests a palm gently against Joe’s cheek. “Nothing. Just remembered why I fancied you all those years ago, is all.”

Joe blushes, torn between feeling flustered and irritated. “Why, because you got off on watching me struggle?”

“No,” Leslie says patiently, “because you tried so hard.”

Joe thinks he should be offended or insulted, but the affection rooted in those words and written all over Leslie’s face makes him feel anything but.

“Well,” Joe murmurs, his face heated beyond belief, “it’ll all amount to nothing if you don’t do good on your word.”

Leslie smiles, strips Joe completely free of his suit jacket and shirt, then guides Joe down onto the bed. Joe buries his face into the pillow, wraps his arms tightly around it, and arches his back. He can imagine it in his head—his chest faced down, nipples pressed against the sheets, legs spread, and arse presented shamelessly so Leslie can lick at his—

“Bloody Christ,” Joe moans when Leslie runs his tongue over his hole, a stripe from his balls up to the dip at his spine.

“How was that?” Leslie asks. Joe hears the smugness in Leslie’s voice—it’s probably plastered all over Leslie’s expression, too.

“Sod off,” Joe grumbles. He lifts his hips higher and spreads his legs wider, visuals be damned.

Leslie hums, then places both palms onto Joe’s arse. Joe doesn’t get the time to enjoy the roughness on his skin before Leslie is licking at his hole again, around the perimeter where his skin is still raw and sore from the breach of Leslie’s cock.

“You’re so wet,” Leslie murmurs between licks. “So wet and red. So tight, too, even though I was in you for so long. I’ll have to do something about that before we move on, don’t you think?”

Then, Leslie traces a finger around his hole and dips it in.

Joe buries his face even deeper into the pillow, trying not to cry out. He’s not going to give Leslie the satisfaction. He’s not going to let Leslie win. He won’t.

“Don’t be shy,” Leslie says. “Let it out. I want to hear you.” He pumps his finger in and out, slow and deliberate. The friction is offset by the come that’s still inside Joe, and Joe hears the way it sounds, the wetness that’s loud and echoing against the walls of the bedroom, inside his own ears, and he nearly—

No. He won’t let Leslie win. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t—

Leslie adds two more fingers at once and wraps his other hand around Joe’s cock, squeezing hard at the base, and Joe has no choice but to scream.

“That’s it,” Leslie coaxes. He digs his nails into Joe’s balls, dragging them upward. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Tell me how good it feels.”

“I—” Joe gasps as Leslie runs his hand up Joe’s cock. “You bastard, I’m supposed to be making you feel good.”

“But you are,” Leslie says, twisting his fingers and pressing his thumb to the tip of Joe’s cock. “It feels incredible inside you, knowing you’re being so good by keeping me in. And your cock,” Leslie pumps once, “it's leaking so much, covering me. Do you want to come again while I eat you out? Is that what you want?”

Every retort is caught in Joe’s throat, unable to be pieced together. He’s lost control over the English language, over his body, over his mind. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore, can’t find the right way to express it all, just knows Leslie’s fingers crooked inside him and around his cock, just—

“Yes,” Joe says, shoving his arse up, and that’s apparently all Leslie needs to withdraw his fingers and replace them with his tongue at Joe’s hole.

Leslie works him open even more, licking and sucking and spitting, while his hands roam over Joe’s arse, his hips, his back, his stomach, his cock—everywhere, until Leslie wraps his arms around Joe’s thighs, lifting him off the bed. At this angle, with Leslie’s mouth at his hole as Leslie sucks a final time, Joe comes with a loud cry, spilling all over the sheets.

Joe manages two short breaths before Leslie wanks himself off, a quick one, two stroke, coating Joe’s back with ropes of white. Joe finds himself spun around and pushed down until his skin is glued to the sheets with their combined release. Before Joe can complain about the mess, Leslie crawls up, takes Joe’s head between his hands, and kisses him deep, tongue shoving in as hard as it did in Joe’s arse. The taste of Leslie mixes in with the faded taste of himself, and Joe wraps his arms wearily around Leslie’s back, bringing their hearts closer together.

Leslie leans back, smiles, then presses another light, close-mouthed kiss to the space between Joe’s nose and upper lip. It’s so at odds with everything they just did that instead of letting go, Joe pulls Leslie even closer.

“What’s wrong?” Leslie asks. His fingers go slack, running through Joe’s hair instead like he’s soothing a crying child. “Was that too much?”

Joe buries his face in Leslie’s shoulder and shakes his head.

“Then what is it?” Leslie asks, concern seeping in yet again, and—

That’s it, isn’t it? Joe’s body is worn, his muscles are sore, and his back feels disgusting with the feeling of come smothered all over it. He’s going to have trouble walking tomorrow, and _hell_ if he knows how he’s going to explain all of this to Tom, but—

“I love you, you prick. Alright?”

Leslie goes still in Joe’s arms, and Joe freezes in turn. _Shit_. How could he be so careless? How could he let himself be carried away like that? He should know better by now. Just because they did all this—just because Leslie fancied him back then doesn’t mean he still—

Leslie’s chest begins to shake, and Joe lifts his head just enough to take a peek. Leslie is laughing. Again.

“Have you gone mental?” Joe asks.

“I should be asking you that,” Leslie says in between laughs. “Who just goes and says that sort of thing?”

“Well, excuse me for having lost my head,” Joe grumbles. “Forget it, alright?” He pushes Leslie away so he can escape from the bed and grimaces when he feels his back still sticky.

Leslie wraps a hand gently around Joe’s wrist, hauling him back with an arm around Joe’s waist. “Let me finish,” he says.

Joe turns reluctantly, and—well, if any person holds the record for setting Joe’s stomach aflutter with butterflies, it would be Leslie. Leslie, with his red lips and dark eyes and now disheveled hair.

“I never stopped looking either,” Leslie says.

Joe twists his fingers into the sheets. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that all of this—it’s real. It’s been real the entire time,” Leslie confesses. He smiles wistfully. “At least on my end, anyway. I’ve never been very good at pretending.”

Joe thinks back to Leslie holding his hand on the train, Leslie kissing him deep in front of the hotel, and Leslie looking at him on the hillside. He thinks about “You’re hard to say no to” and “I’ve always fancied him” and “It’s because it’s been years.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Joe asks. His heart is about to beat out of his ears and chest if he doesn’t calm it down soon, but part of him also enjoys the rush, now that he understands what it means.

Leslie digs his fingers into the dip of Joe’s spine. “Like I said, I didn’t want you to feel something you didn’t have control over.”

Joe blinks. “We’re a couple of idiots, aren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself. I knew you were an idiot the day I met you.” Leslie runs his eyes over Joe’s face. “I guess it took a little while for me to catch up.”

“Keep saying things like that and I’ll have no choice but to fall for you again,” Joe says, then immediately regrets it. He flushes an even deeper red. “I—I mean—”

Leslie regards Joe with such a sugary fondness that Joe would roll his eyes if he weren’t so mortifyingly embarrassed by the situation.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Leslie asks with no heat behind his words.

“Oh, shut it,” Joe mumbles. He wraps his arms around Leslie’s neck and buries his head back into Leslie’s shoulder, then falls until his body hits the bed, bringing Leslie with him.

“For the record, I love you too,” Leslie says softly after a few beats. “You prick.”

If Joe finds himself grinning into Leslie’s skin until he falls asleep, well… who’s going to tell?

~

As nicely as the night ended, he really should’ve taken a shower before officially passing out because waking up with dried come stains all over his body is not the world’s greatest feeling. Still, it’s offset by the sight of Leslie sleeping beside him, so Joe can’t complain too much. Is this what he would’ve seen ten years ago if Joe had woken up before Leslie left?

Joe rakes his eyes over every dip in Leslie’s body, beginning from the way Leslie’s neck gives way to his shoulders, to the way Leslie’s hips taper into his pelvis, ending with Leslie’s cock lying there at half-mast between Leslie’s thighs. He stays there, staring at the light reflecting off of Leslie’s piercing, and suddenly has an urge to know how it feels under his touch. He reaches out, fingers ghosting tentatively at the tip of Leslie’s cock, conjuring a shudder that travels through Leslie’s body.

Joe glances up, seeing Leslie turn his face away from the pillow to look down between his legs.

“Did I wake you?” Joe asks.

Leslie moans when Joe applies pressure to the base of Leslie’s cock, then squeezes up and over the tip. Leslie thrusts into Joe’s grip, bracing his hands on Joe’s shoulders as he does so.

Joe grins. Having Leslie respond to his every touch is a lot more fun than he’d imagined. When Joe pushes, Leslie goes; when Joe pulls, Leslie comes, both figuratively and literally. They should’ve been doing this a long time ago.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Joe says, continuing to stroke as he adds his other hand to knead Leslie’s balls, rubbing them up against Leslie’s cock.

“Were you always a tease?” Leslie asks, already short of breath. His cheeks are heated too—does Leslie not allow people to touch him like this often? The thought that Leslie trusts Joe enough to do it makes Joe’s gut flare up with another impulse, another desire, another dare.

Joe scoots forward, then brings their cocks flush together, length to length, tips grazing—like this, he feels the weight of Leslie’s piercing on his own cock when he strokes them both with one hand.

Leslie’s hips buck forward, and he digs his nails into Joe’s skin when Joe twists his fingers hard at the tips.

“You _are_ a tease,” Leslie says, his voice uneven and hoarse.

“You think this is teasing?” Joe lifts Leslie’s leg and hooks it over his own hips, then lowers his hand to rub a finger at Leslie’s hole. He dips in slightly, crooking once, relishing the way Leslie’s eyes roll shut.

“ _That’s_ teasing,” Joe says, speeding up the flicks of his wrist up and down their cocks as he dips his finger in again.

Leslie is trying to keep his breathing steady, but Joe can tell that Leslie’s about to lose what little control he has left if the increasingly erratic moans coming out of Leslie’s throat are anything to go by. It’s mesmerising, this version of Leslie that’s so sensitive to Joe’s touch, this vulnerability that Leslie is letting Joe witness. He wonders if Leslie would let him…

“I want to fuck you,” Joe says, punctuating his sentence with a thrust, sliding their cocks together in slow friction. He sinks his finger into Leslie’s hole completely, watching Leslie’s face contort from pleasure and pain from taking Joe dry.

When Leslie doesn’t reply, Joe hesitates. Did that not feel good? Was that too fast? He begins to withdraw his finger and loosen the hand around their cocks, but Leslie stops him by grinding down and wrapping his own hand around Joe’s. Leslie’s cheeks are as red as his lips, and his dark eyes are wavering with uncertainty, and—is Leslie embarrassed?

“We can stop if you don’t want this,” Joe says. The last thing he wants is to make Leslie uncomfortable.

Leslie lets out a noise that’s something between a scoff and a laugh. “It’s not that. It’s…” He lifts his head, meeting Joe’s eyes with a shyness that Joe’s never seen before.

That’s when it hits him.

“Has no one ever…?” Joe asks.

Leslie bites his lip, worrying the skin there until it’s even redder than before, then shakes his head.

“How?” Joe blurts out, then pales. “Sorry, that was rude, I didn’t mean—if it’s not your thing, that’s perfectly fine, I don’t want to imply that—”

Leslie leans forward and shoves his tongue into Joe's mouth, licking once before pulling back again.

“What was that for?” Joe asks, dazed from the lingering tingle of Leslie's lips. He is so, so confused right now, and he thought he was in control for once.

“You were going to spiral into one of your crazy assumptions again,” Leslie says.

“This is important,” Joe insists. “I don’t want to make you feel bad.”

“I know.” Leslie squeezes their cocks, stroking once and rubbing his thumb at the pre-come gathered at the tips. Then, he reaches a hand between his thighs and pushes Joe’s finger further in, grinding down again as he does so.

“Are you sure?” Joe asks, resisting the urge to press a second finger in right then and there.

Leslie nods. “I haven’t let anyone do it because I never trusted anyone before. But I trust you.”

From that admission alone, Joe’s ready to push Leslie into the bed until they sink into the foam and take Leslie however he wants. Even so, he forces himself to keep it together, to not reveal how much he wants to bend Leslie over every vaguely flat surface in the suite—the desk, the bathroom sink, the kitchenette’s counter—and make Leslie beg for his cock. Hell, he wants to plaster Leslie against the thin railing that’s lining the balcony outside, shove Leslie’s legs apart, and drive his cock deep into Leslie, making Leslie cry out until Leslie’s moans echo across the resort, letting all of the guests know that Leslie is his.

“Okay,” Joe says.

Leslie kisses him again, then hikes his leg further up, spreading his legs and allowing Joe easier access. It’s incredibly indecent, the way Leslie looks with his chest heaving, his cock leaking, and his hole twitching from one finger. This must simply be one of Leslie’s natural talents, his ability to seduce with the entire force of his body.

Joe rolls gently until Leslie’s back hits the mattress. Leslie shifts his leg so that it’s hooked over Joe’s shoulder, causing Leslie’s cock to bounce once against his stomach.

“Have your way with me, then,” Leslie says, pupils dilated and back arched.

Joe swallows, popping open the nearly empty bottle of lube, and squeezes as much is left directly onto Leslie’s hole. He lifts Leslie’s hips up, then thrusts his finger back in, pumping in and out as slowly as he can to allow Leslie to get used to the pressure.

“Feels so good,” Leslie moans when Joe adds a second finger. “So much better than my own hand.”

Joe isn’t sure if Leslie meant to say that second part out loud, but a million images of Leslie fingering himself on the bed, in the shower, at his work, _wherever_ , pop up at once, causing Joe’s hand to falter and press into Leslie until the heel of his palm is flush against Leslie’s balls.

Leslie cries out, thrusting once into the air. “Yes, there.”

Joe adds a third finger, keeping a delicate balance between wanting to ease Leslie into it and wanting to speed up and fingerfuck Leslie into oblivion. Leslie is full-on whimpering now, sending an electrifying spark through Joe’s body until it infiltrates Joe’s gut, resting there and claiming its territory. It's dangerous—Joe knows this hunger won’t dissipate until he gets what he wants, until he consumes Leslie whole, until he—

“Are—” Joe spreads his fingers as wide apart as he can in Leslie’s hole, stretching it open, feeling Leslie wax and wane with his touch. “Are you—”

“Bloody fucking Christ,” Leslie growls. “Yes, yes I’m ready, come on.”

Joe withdraws his fingers after he crooks them one last time, sensing himself getting hard from the sight of Leslie’s cock twitching. He rubs as much of the residual lube as he can on his own cock before holding Leslie’s legs apart with his hands, aligning his cock, and pushing in.

The moan that Leslie lets out is, without a doubt, the loudest and most obscene noise that Joe has ever heard in his entire life, even compared to his own whimpers from last night. It’s gravelly and stuttered, drawn-out at a pace that’s accompanied by the way Leslie’s mouth falls open and closed from his attempts to breathe. Joe’s tip is barely breaching Leslie’s hole, but Leslie clenches around him like an airtight seal, trying to keep Joe there and draw him all the way inside. Joe moves his hips carefully, forcing himself to slow down the tempo instead of thrusting in all at once. It’s very, very difficult because Leslie already looks absolutely wrecked from the minimal penetration. Joe wants— _needs_ —to keep going until Leslie is completely taken apart even though he knows this is just his own selfish desire, this strange instinct to push, push, push until Leslie is totally, thoroughly, and fully impaled on his—

“Hey.”

At some point, Joe must’ve closed his eyes, because when he opens them, Leslie is glaring up at him with that predatorial glint of his, eyes blazing with a fire that only exists inside Leslie. Joe doesn’t know how Leslie manages it because Leslie is the one on his back with his arse plugged up, defenceless and exposed, and yet, Joe can’t help but feel like he’s the one in danger.

“You still with me?” Leslie asks. It’s a question, but it sounds like an order.

 _Always_ , is what Joe thinks.

“I’m sorry,” is what Joe says, though he’s not sure what he’s apologising for. It feels as if Leslie can read his thoughts though, so maybe Joe’s apologising for all of it, everything.

“What for?” Leslie huffs out in between breaths. “I’m not going to break.”

Joe wants to roam his hands all over Leslie’s skin until his fingerprints are etched into the pores, wants to tighten them around Leslie’s throat until he hears the full repertoire of Leslie’s chokes and moans. He wants to use Leslie’s hole until Leslie can’t be satisfied with anything other than the throbbing ache of Joe’s cock pounding relentlessly into him. He wants to fill Leslie up until Leslie is overwhelmed with the taste of Joe's release on his tongue, wants to tangle all of Leslie’s limbs together until they form a knot that only Joe can unravel, wants to kiss Leslie’s mouth until Leslie learns to only scream Joe’s name.

He wants to paint the canvas of Leslie’s body with his come so that anyone shining a blacklight on Leslie will see evidence of the ruins that Joe’s laid on him. More than anything, he wants people to realise that behind all those pieces of art crafted from Leslie’s hands is a man that’s even more stunning in comparison—that it’s Leslie himself who’s the true work of art.

“This is your first time,” Joe says, reddening at the possibility of making any of his wishes come true, either now or at some point in the future. “I don’t want to—”

Leslie grabs Joe by the hips and hauls him in, fucking himself with Joe’s cock. “You said yourself I’m the furthest thing from fragile. Now, are you going to fuck me or what?”

Leslie’s pupils are blown so wide that Joe swears he’s going to fall into their abyss and never find his way out again. Even so, Joe nods because this is Leslie, and he’ll give Leslie anything. He hooks Leslie’s other leg over his shoulder so that Leslie’s hips are fully suspended in the air, braces both hands against the headboard, then penetrates the rest of the way in until Leslie is nearly folded in half.

Leslie throws his head back from the force, sending a thundering crack that reverberates through the walls of the room. Joe takes the opportunity to bite down on Leslie’s neck, thrusting in deep as he sucks at Leslie’s throat.

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Leslie groans out, reaching his hands up to grab Joe’s hair. He tugs roughly at the roots, the same moment that Joe snaps his hips again, trying to give Leslie the same pleasure that Leslie gave him last night. From the way Leslie’s words dissolve into an incoherent string of sounds and syllables, Joe wagers that he’s accomplished exactly what he set out to do.

Joe wraps both arms around Leslie’s waist, this time hauling Leslie upright and slamming him against the headboard. At this angle, Joe is able to sink the full length of his cock in every time, all the way to the hilt. Now that he knows Leslie can take him completely, he picks up the pace, vision blurring as he thrusts faster, faster, faster. The heat of Leslie’s skin combines with the wet slide of Leslie’s cock between their stomachs, and Joe suddenly remembers…

He reaches down and grips Leslie’s cock, digging his thumb into Leslie’s piercing with as much force as he can.

“Now,” Joe orders, and there’s a brief flicker of surprise, arousal, and pain flashing through Leslie’s eyes before Leslie moans one last time, spilling onto Joe’s hand, their chests, and his own face.

Joe wipes the come off of Leslie’s nose and shoves his fingers into Leslie’s mouth, then chases his own climax by continuing to fuck both holes with his hand and with his cock. Either by accident or by design, Leslie sucks on Joe’s fingers the same time that Leslie’s hole clenches around Joe’s cock, and the tightness on both ends propels Joe to thrust a final time, banging Leslie against the headboard until the room shakes. Joe’s hips stutter when Joe comes deep inside Leslie, and if it’s the most he’s come in awhile, including last night, well… who’s going to tell?

Joe pulls out after he’s spent, slow and steady, letting his cock fall out of Leslie’s hole as he sits back on his heels. He grabs both of Leslie’s legs and gently lowers them off his shoulders and onto the bed, grounding Leslie back to Earth.

“Are you alright?” Joe asks. He’s got to admit, he lost control somewhere between… somewhere. The last thing he wants is to be the cause of something that Leslie will regret.

But, Leslie just brings their faces together, kissing Joe sweetly until Joe melts into Leslie’s scent. Even without saying a word, Joe understands.

“Hell of a first time,” Leslie says wearily after they part. “You know how to show a man a good time.”

Joe laughs, his giggles bursting out of his chest due to the tiredness settling into his bones. “You make a man want to try.”

“Try?” Leslie bends his knees and spreads his legs apart. He looks down, reaching a finger inside his hole and swiping at the skin there, briefly flinching when he presses too hard. “You did more than try.”

As Leslie rests there against the headboard, his cock lying lazily against his stomach and his hole dripping with Joe’s release, Joe has another sudden desire to—

“I really want to blow you,” Joe blurts out.

Leslie just looks him in the eye with equal measures of amusement and affection. “You can’t be satiated, can you?”

“I really want to blow you,” Joe repeats. He peers at the corkboard, which got knocked off its hinges at some point by the walls shaking, then at the clock on the nightstand. “But we’re already ten minutes late for breakfast, so I can’t.”

Leslie tilts his head, seemingly taking this into consideration. “How long have we got until it ends?”

“Forty-five? Fifty?”

“You can blow me in the shower.”

So, Joe does. He gets on his knees in the spacious open shower and takes Leslie into his mouth underneath the heat of the water. After that, he spins Leslie around, spits Leslie’s come into Leslie’s hole, and fucks Leslie against the wall until he fills Leslie up again, then sucks him out.

What? It’s not his fault that Leslie looks so good with his bruised red lips and his blown dark eyes and his disheveled hair.

They manage to get their hands off of each other long enough to properly wash up and throw on clean clothes before rushing out of the hotel room.

“Wait,” Joe says, pulling Leslie back into the lift when they reach the ground floor. He runs a thumb over Leslie’s throat, where Joe’s teeth left a mark. “What are we going to tell them?”

Leslie covers Joe’s hand and looks at him with a funny expression. “Do we need to say anything?”

What kind of question is that? “I mean—”

“They already think we’re fucking,” Leslie says. “Now they’ve got proof we are.”

Leslie hauls Joe in by the collar, kissing him once before pushing the ‘open’ button. Joe follows Leslie before the doors close on him again, and they make it to the dining hall with five minutes to spare.

The moment Joe pushes open the door, Tom immediately appears with a plate of eggs and pudding in one hand and a half-drained glass of orange juice in the other.

“You’re late,” Tom says with a hint of annoyance that indicates he’s utterly unimpressed.

“We are,” Joe says, glancing at Leslie and suddenly feeling self-conscious. What did they do before? Before they…? Did he ever hold Leslie’s hand? Did he ever touch the small of Leslie’s back, press himself into Leslie’s side… anything? He can’t remember. All that’s running through his mind are images of Leslie taking his cock and Leslie taking him in return, repeating on loop.

“Are you okay?” Tom asks. He’s diverting his attention between Joe and Leslie with a suspicious look.

Before Joe can reply, Will floats by with his own plate of various assortments of vegetables and a glass of tomato juice in tow.

“Morning,” Will says. He looks at Leslie and raises his eyebrows, only appearing mildly scandalised. “A very nice morning.”

Joe follows Will’s eyes over to the red mark on Leslie’s throat and automatically blushes. “That—That’s not what you think—”

Leslie sighs, pressing closer. For a moment, Joe thinks Leslie is going to hit or punch him before Leslie laces his hand with Joe’s, palm against palm—like yesterday on the train, but real.

“It was a very nice morning indeed,” Leslie says, lifting their arms and dropping a kiss to Joe’s fingers. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Oh my God,” Tom blurts out, arms shooting up and causing some egg to launch off of his plate. “Oh my God. Wait, does that mean you guys finally did it?”

What?

“What?” Joe says, the same moment that Leslie does.

“Oh my God,” Tom repeats. He tosses his plate onto the nearest table and tugs on Will’s sleeve excitedly. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Will. Babe. Babe!”

“Yes, yes, I see it, stop pulling,” Will says, prying Tom’s fingers off of his cuffs.

“This means I win,” Tom gloats, shoving Will’s hand away and latching onto the front of Will’s shirt this time. “Oh my God. I never win our bets. Holy shit.”

“Don’t be so cocky about it,” Will says. “You only won by a day.” He looks over at Joe, then Leslie. “So, which one of you do I blame for this?”

“What?” Joe says again faintly. “What are you talking about?” He turns his head mechanically to face Leslie, who’s wearing an extremely pained expression. Why does he look like that? Why…?

“I think they knew,” Leslie says.

“Knew what?” Joe asks, feeling incredibly lost.

“That we were…” Leslie trails off. “You know. Faking it.”

“What?” Joe says for a third time, this time with the entire force of his chest. “How?”

“Joe, come on,” Tom says, crossing his arms. “You didn’t date anyone for five years, and all of a sudden you snag Leslie as your boyfriend? Out of nowhere, days before the party? I don’t think so.”

“You mean, when you rang me at work that day… you didn’t believe me?” Joe asks.

“Believe me, I really wanted to,” Tom admits. “And I did, at first. But after I hung up, I thought a little more about it, and… I mean, I know you. You would’ve told me if you had someone.”

Joe wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Or, even better, he wishes he could turn back time and continue fucking Leslie right through breakfast instead of coming downstairs. This is so utterly embarrassing. Did he ever have the upper hand at any point during this weekend?

“So, all of this, everything we did,” Joe realises, cheeks heating as he thinks back to Leslie kissing him in front of the hotel, Leslie accompanying him to dinner, and Leslie pulling him up for a dance, “it was all for nothing?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Will pipes up calmly, after taking the last sip of his tomato juice. He looks really unbothered for someone who just lost a bet. “It led to that, didn’t it?” He tilts his chin to where Leslie’s hand is still clasped with Joe’s.

“We could be pretending right now,” Joe says. “What makes you think we aren’t?” For some reason, he feels the need to defend himself, even though he knows that it’s not the least bit useful right now.

Tom places a gentle hand on Joe’s shoulder and looks at him with the most serious expression he’s ever worn. “Joe. Do you understand how many things you’ve just admitted to with that?”

“Let him be, Tom,” Will says, popping a carrot into his mouth and crunching loudly. “He’s a little confused. Why don’t you go refill our drinks?”

Tom frowns, but he takes Will’s glass and disappears after sending Joe another pointed look.

Will watches Tom go, then turns back to Joe. “I’ve got to say, when you blurted out that you were going to bring someone, I never thought it would end up like this. Happiness is a good look on you. You’re a lucky man, Leslie.”

It’s at this point that Joe notices Leslie has been quiet for quite some time. Joe looks down at their intertwined hands, then up at Leslie’s face. The expression there is new, one that Joe has never seen before.

“I know I am,” Leslie says. His lips turn upward into a small smile, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“ _What?_ ” Joe’s lost track of the number of times he’s said that by now, but this instance is the one he feels the most strongly. “How could you say that? Take that back.”

Leslie turns, surprise evident in his eyes as Will bursts out laughing next to them.

“Yeah,” Will manages to get out after catching his breath, “you two deserve each other. I do wish you would’ve waited until tomorrow to bone the living daylights out of each other, but I suppose treating Tom to a trip to Disneyland isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”

Joe’s head is swirling with all the information that Will just dumped on them, so he latches onto the one that jumps out the most. “You’re going to Disneyland? When? Which one?”

“Joe,” Leslie says, squeezing his hand once. “Focus.”

“Let’s go to the one in Japan,” Tom says, appearing out of nowhere with two freshly topped glasses of juice. He hands the tomato to Will before taking a swig of his orange. “I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

“I brought you with me to that conference three months ago,” Will reminds him.

“I was in the hotel all day, so that doesn’t count,” Tom says. “Let’s go to Japan!”

“I didn’t hear you complaining about the hotel while we were there,” Will says, parking a hand in Tom’s back pocket and dragging him closer for a kiss to the temple. “I only remember you making all those noises while I—”

“Will,” Tom scolds, pinching Will’s nose, “there are innocent bystanders present.”

Will looks back over at Joe and Leslie. “Innocent? Them?”

Tom follows Will’s gaze to Leslie’s neck. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Maybe not so innocent, then. Still, I don’t think they need to hear this.”

“I really don’t,” Joe says, after managing to regain his voice. “I don’t want any of the sordid details.”

“Hypocrite,” Tom sings out. “I heard the walls shake this morning. Did you forget we’re right next door? I told myself it could’ve been you tipping the telly over or something, but turns out that wasn’t it at all, was it?”

“I could’ve told you that,” Will says. “In fact, I distinctly recollect saying, ‘Tom, dear, it sounds like your brother and his very fake boyfriend are planning to reduce the hotel to rubble with their shagging.’ But, did you believe me? You did not.”

“Well, excuse me for wanting proof,” Tom says. “My trip to Disneyland depended on it, you know.”

“I am going to leave this room now,” Joe announces, ears going bright red. If staying here means continuing to expose himself to Will and Tom’s teasing, then he would rather stay locked up in the suite with an empty stomach. Besides, he recalls seeing some biscuits stowed away next to the kitchenette sink, which will be more than enough. “Let’s go, Ellis.”

“First name basis!” Tom yells after them. “Progress!”

Joe grips Leslie’s hand tightly as he drags Leslie out of the room and into the lift, punching the fifth-floor button as hard as he can.

“Joe?” Leslie asks as the lift ascends, once again reminding Joe of how quiet Leslie has been. “Are you okay?”

Leslie is looking at him with that concern in his eyes again, and that’s—how can Joe possibly resist that?

“No,” Joe states, surprised by the heat behind his voice. “I am not okay.” He all but tows Leslie behind him out of the lift, down the hallway, and into their suite, slamming Leslie against the door when he kicks it shut.

“What—” Leslie gets out before Joe muffles the rest of Leslie’s sentence with his mouth over Leslie’s. Joe plants both palms firmly on Leslie’s chest, pushes a knee up against Leslie’s cock, and runs his tongue across the roof of Leslie’s mouth.

“I am not okay,” Joe says when he leans back. “Do you know why? Because you waltzed back into my life with those stupidly red lips of yours, red as sin, and those eyes that pierce right through me, and—actually, your entire face? What is that? And your voice? Did you know, the moment you picked up and spoke, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you even though you weren’t even in front of me and I didn’t even know what you looked like after all this time? Did you know that? I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that until now. What in bloody hell. How dare you?”

“You’re the one who rang me out of—”

Joe shuts Leslie up with another kiss, this time biting down into Leslie’s bottom lip until he almost draws blood.

“Shut up. I’m not done. How dare you? How dare you come back into my life with that earring and that attitude and kiss me like that in front of my baby brother? How dare you bring me a glass of wine and food and—and—seduce me with your—all of _that?_ What was with that story you told them at dinner? Saying you’ve always fancied me? Telling them the truth? What was with that dance, what was with that kiss—and what was with everything after that, fucking me and letting me fuck you, and—a pierced dick? Are you fucking kidding me? And all the times you’ve looked at me like that, like the way you’re looking at me right now, with—God, I don’t even know what that is. Concern? What is that? I told you that you make me nervous. I told you that I loved you. That I _do_ love you. And you—”

Joe has no choice but to break for air, breathless from spilling out word after word, from tearing up out of frustration, and from kissing Leslie senseless. He inhales once more, deeply, before finishing. “You told me that you loved me too, and you have the audacity to tell me you don’t think you deserve it?”

When Leslie doesn’t say anything, Joe asks quietly, “Did you mean any of it?”

That seems to be the question that brings Leslie to life, because Leslie places both of his palms on Joe’s face, pressing his calluses deeply into Joe’s skin.

“Yes,” Leslie says. He kisses Joe twice, once next to the corner of each eye, licking Joe’s tears away. “Of course I meant it. All of it. I didn’t realise that I could make you so angry. I didn’t realise I could make you feel so strongly about anything, to be honest.”

“Well, you do,” Joe says, deflating completely and feeling the strength leave his legs. He falls forward, using Leslie’s body to prop himself up. “You always have. Stop thinking you don’t.”

Leslie wraps his arms around Joe’s shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. “I’ll try, for your sake.”

“You’d better,” Joe says. He buries his face in the crook of Leslie’s neck. “Otherwise, you’re not going to get any more of this.”

Leslie laughs, his chest rumbling against Joe’s. “That would be a shame, considering I know how nice of a time you show someone.”

“Much better than what Will shows Tom, I’ll bet you that,” Joe says. He raises his head. “Speaking of betting, I can’t believe those pricks were trying to con _us_. Did I not need to bring you? Did we not have to pretend?”

“Seems that way. Will was right about one thing, though.” Leslie lowers his hands until they’re grabbing Joe’s arse. “It led to this.”

Then, Leslie picks Joe up, crosses the room in a few wide strides, and dumps him onto the bed.

Joe immediately wraps both legs around Leslie’s waist, pulling him closer. “I knew you had those strong arms for a reason.”

“Why do you think I hit the gym every day?” Leslie asks, stripping himself of his t-shirt and shoving a hand down the front of Joe’s jeans. “It certainly wasn’t to impress anybody else.”

“You mean to tell me that you were working out on the off-chance of seeing me again and fucking me?” Joe asks, arching up into Leslie’s touch and taking off his own shirt. He hooks two fingers through Leslie’s belt loops, hauling him in so Joe can unzip Leslie’s jeans. “Sounds like someone’s been daydreaming.”

Leslie pushes Joe’s jeans off, then quickly kicks off his own, grinding down and thrusting against Joe’s arse, sliding his cock against Joe’s hole. “This is better than any dream I’ve ever had.”

God, that is so fucking cheesy. Joe responds by spreading his legs as far apart as he can manage, and then some more.

“I don’t know,” Joe says. He shoves one finger into his hole, then a second, working himself open with a scissoring motion. He guides Leslie’s cock over with his other hand, pressing the tip against the rim and rubbing circles around the entrance. “I’ve had better.”

Leslie glares down at him like he’s about to kill him, pupils dilated and mouth set in a firm line. Joe grins. He’s got him.

“Keep that up and I’ll stuff your mouth until you can’t talk,” Leslie says, pushing two of his own fingers into Joe’s hole and stretching it open even more.

Joe moans, relishing the burn and welcoming the fire that’s building inside his chest. He grinds onto Leslie’s fingers, onto Leslie’s cock, onto his own fingers.

“Come on,” he says, when Leslie continues to tease his cock against his hole but not breach it, “give it to me.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because Leslie adds two more fingers and presses his thumb to Joe’s balls, hitting so far up inside that Joe screams and sees stars.

“Oh—” Joe gasps out. Tears begin to form in his eyes as Leslie continues to crook and twist his fingers in every direction. They fight against Joe’s own fingers inside his hole, and the pleasure is so overwhelming that Joe can’t tell if he’s moving his hand by himself, or if Leslie is doing it for him. He shuts his eyes, imagining it all—imagining Leslie fucking him with Joe’s own hand.

“This isn’t what you wanted?” Leslie asks. He’s sliding his cock against Joe’s hole again, adding to the fire, feeding the flames. “You have to use your words.”

“It—It’s fucking amazing, you’re bloody fucking amazing, but, _oh_ —” Joe chokes out a sob when Leslie stretches Joe’s hole wide to prod the tip of his cock against the entrance. “I—I want your—I want your—inside my—”

Leslie thrusts, just enough for the tip to join their fingers in Joe’s hole. “Yes, darling?”

And that’s not fair, right? It’s not fair that Leslie has the power to reduce Joe to a pliant mess with two words alone, but Joe melts anyway, surrendering his body along with his life.

“I—” Joe has one foot off the ledge of ecstasy already, so close to shattering into pieces that’ll scatter across the vast universe, but he can’t come before he—before Leslie— “I want your cock inside me.”

Then, Leslie withdraws his fingers, leaving Joe’s hole red and open before grabbing both of Joe’s wrists and pinning them above Joe’s head. He shoves his knees under Joe’s thighs, lifting Joe’s hips into the air and aligning his cock with Joe’s hole, lining up their orbits.

“Ready?” is all the warning Leslie gives Joe before sinking in and sliding home.

Later, when they’re all gathered in the front lobby and Tom comes by to say goodbye, he takes one look at the two of them and immediately groans.

“Seriously?” Tom asks, gesturing wildly at somewhere underneath Joe’s jaw. “ _Again?_ How horny can you guys get?”

Joe brushes a hand against his jaw, feeling the tender bruise forming on the raw skin there, then remembers—Leslie put it there sometime between pounding his cock into Joe and flipping him over on his stomach and doing it again.

“It’s not my problem my boyfriend is better in bed than yours,” Joe says, then ducks behind Leslie when Tom comes after him with leftover tomatoes from breakfast.

~

_ONE WEEK LATER_

Alright, here’s the thing: Leslie is hiding something from him.

It’s nothing scandalous or salacious, Joe is sure, but every time Joe tries to get Leslie to spill, Leslie always employs the same evasive maneuvers: he kisses Joe on the lips, slides his tongue against his, and changes the topic to something else. That, or he pushes Joe against the nearest flat surface and fucks him then and there.

Evasive maneuvers. They work every time.

It’s incredibly frustrating because Joe thought that they were done keeping secrets from each other. After one year of pining in sixth form, after ten years of being apart, and after one day-ish of a fake relationship, Joe assumed they would be bloody fucking brilliant at the real deal. They’d gotten all of the hard stuff out of the way, after all, didn’t they?

Turns out, he was wrong. The real deal is hard. Not that it isn’t worth the effort—Leslie is worth all of the effort and more. The thing is, as much as Joe prides himself on knowing Leslie, there remain instances in which he’s reminded of the fact that Leslie still has some secrets.

Instances, such as the week leading up to the opening of the final stop in the Flanders Field touring art show. Joe knew about it, of course, from when he did some snooping—and now that he and Leslie are officially a thing, he didn’t think it’d be a big deal to bring it up.

“What are you working on for the show?” is all Joe had asked the Tuesday after they returned to London. As it turned out, the venue for the show was a short tube ride from Joe’s workplace, and because Leslie needed to sort out some final details for the show, they decided to take lunch together. The art show was the topic of the day, and Joe was truly interested. Leslie always becomes impossibly animated and passionate whenever he talks about his work. It’s quite endearing, but it also lights a fire in Joe’s soul because it reminds him of what Leslie said to him once— _You’re more interesting than my work_.

Joe has a really difficult time believing the truth of that statement when he’s sitting face to face with a Leslie that’s going off about colours and canvases and some modern artist that Joe’s never heard of, but it doesn’t make him any less in love with Leslie. In fact, it makes Joe love Leslie even more.

That’s not the point, though. The point is that they were talking about the show when Leslie mentioned offhand that he was creating something new to accompany the preexisting pieces, as a special treat for the closing venue.

And—Leslie was the one who brought it up in the first place, right? So, why is Joe the one who’s facing a dodgy Leslie that’s trying to avoid talking about whatever it is that he’s making? Is Leslie painting something that Joe wouldn’t like? Joe can’t imagine it. Does Leslie think that Joe wouldn’t care? That’s also false, because Joe absolutely cares. He cares about everything that is related to Leslie.

This has been Joe’s mission every day since Tuesday, attempting different ways of approaching the subject. “How’s the painting coming along?” was his question on Wednesday. That was overrun by Leslie’s “the hotcakes are burning on the griddle” and a frantic scramble to toss the pan under the faucet before it could burst into flames. On Thursday, Joe tried, “Is the painting giving you trouble?” only to be pulled in by the hips and pressed to the bookshelf by Leslie, who went down on his knees and blew and fingered Joe to kingdom come. On Friday, the last day before the show opened, Joe decided to be straightforward and ask, “Why won’t you talk about the painting?” because this was getting ridiculous. What could be so bad or embarrassing or… _whatever_ , that Leslie thought he needed to hide it from him?

Unfortunately, Joe was at work when he asked this question over the phone, and he had to immediately hang up when MacKenzie buzzed into his office to deliver a new task for him to do.

After MacKenzie left, Joe thought he should ring Leslie again, but when he brought up Leslie’s entry in his contact information, all he did was stare at the number a few times and shut his phone off.

It felt oddly like when he had to dial Leslie’s number again for the very first time after ten years, only this time, he didn’t have any of the bravery—impulsiveness? Stupidity?—to follow through. It’s amazing what a person can be driven to do when they’re in desperate need of something.

What does Joe want from Leslie, exactly? Leslie must have a reason for keeping it a secret. But, when Joe thinks about the types of secrets that Leslie’s kept—such as Leslie’s feelings for Joe that he’d bottled up for ten years—then this must also be something big… right?

Maybe Joe is thinking too much about nothing. He recalls what Leslie told him once: _You were going to spiral into one of your crazy assumptions again_.

So, that’s the story up to this point. All of that is what prompted Joe to show up at the art gallery early instead of meeting up with Leslie an hour after the show began, as they originally planned. He wants to take a look at what the hell Leslie’s been hiding from him with his own two eyes.

Joe shuffles in with the rest of the crowd—a rather large one, which makes Joe’s chest swell with pride—and begins strolling through the rows of paintings. They’re not all Leslie’s, of course—in fact, the majority of them aren’t. And even though Joe still can’t tell a Monet from a Manet, it’s obvious that all of these pieces were crafted with love and care.

It’s barely fifteen minutes into the official opening time, but there’s already a large gathering of guests at the main attraction that’s displayed deep inside the gallery, all the way on the other side. Hanging in the middle on its own wall, is Leslie’s supposed crown jewel: _A Scrap of Ribbon_.

The real thing is actually a lot smaller than Joe originally thought. It should be the same size as the reproduction that’s hanging in his living area, next to the corkboard—Leslie had given him a pretty hard time about it, but Joe knew that was Leslie’s way of dealing with his embarrassment. Still, maybe it’s because the wall here is significantly larger than the wall in Joe’s flat. The painting looks almost dwarfed in comparison.

Joe squeezes his way to the front and stares at the nameless faces in the photographs that adorn the painting, all to make up that medal—that scrap of ribbon. At that moment, he feels a pang of inexplicable loneliness, one that he’d never felt from looking at the replica, and realises that this effect is only drawn out by the fact that this is hanging on a wall that’s much larger than necessary. The faces are being drowned out, just as their owners were by the war that consumed their lives.

Honestly, it’s a little too much for Joe to look at for too long. He withdraws from the crowd, deciding to continue down the other side of the gallery when something in the corner catches his eye. Nobody’s standing in front of this one, but there’s something about it that…

Joe walks closer, feeling like a magnet being pulled to its natural source. He plants both feet neatly in front of it, at a respectable one-metre distance dictated by the railing in front. He stares at the piece for a long while. It’s not a very large one—about half the size of _A Scrap of Ribbon_ —but when he registers the content of the piece, _really_ registers it, his stomach nearly erupts with butterflies.

It’s not even a painting. It’s a simple charcoal sketch, as simple as it can be. It’s of someone standing on a hillside, their profile turned. This person is faceless, has no specific features drawn in, but it’s clear from the ink on their neck who it’s supposed to be.

Joe forces himself out of his trance long enough to shift his eyes downward, and that’s when he sees the plaque with the title underneath the sketch. It reads, not in a tidy, typed font as with the other paintings’ plaques hanging in the gallery, but scrawled out by hand, _Home_.

Joe digs his phone out of his pocket, immediately dialing the last number he rang. After five, six rings, he finally hears a click.

“What the hell?” Joe demands into the receiver. A few scattered guests glance in his direction disapprovingly, but Joe doesn’t care. “This is what you were hiding?”

“What?” Leslie asks. His voice crackles on the other end. Goddamn building with its shitty reception.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Joe presses on. “Why would you even hide this? Why—Were you planning on taking it down so I wouldn’t see it? Is that why you wanted us to meet at a later time?”

“I can’t hear you,” Leslie’s garbled voice comes again. “What are you talking about?”

“The sketch, you arse!” Joe’s aware that his voice is raised at a much higher decibel than is appropriate in a gallery, but he’s really at the end of his ropes, here. “‘Home’? What the hell?”

Leslie’s breathing is as steady as the static in Joe’s ear. Joe takes this to mean that Leslie was finally able to hear what Joe has been saying.

“Where are you?” Leslie asks.

Joe begins to laugh uncontrollably. “Where do you think, genius? Take a wild guess.”

“Um, sir,” a foreign voice pipes up meekly.

Joe spins around. There’s a tall, bulky lad with bright orange hair standing a few paces away, dressed in a button-up and slacks. He looks like he’s deeply regretting getting Joe’s attention.

“Sir, um,” the lad says. “I’m sorry, but we have a strict no cellphone policy in here…”

Joe watches the lad fiddle with the buttons on his sleeves, his back slightly hunched but trying to stand tall, and that’s when the proverbial lightbulb appears.

“You’re Ellis’s assistant, right?” Joe asks. “What was your name again? Killian? Kieran?”

“Kilgour,” the lad corrects. “Peter. Um. Sorry, who are you?”

“I’m Joe,” Joe says, though he’s not sure how useful that information is because he doesn’t know if Leslie has mentioned him to Kilgour.

Kilgour’s eyes light up, his face exploding with surprise. “Mr. Blake?”

“Please don’t call me that. Mr. Blake is my father.” Joe supposes this means Leslie did talk about him at work—he wonders what else Leslie might’ve said about him.

“Sorry, sir.” Kilgour clasps his hands together and begins to twiddle his thumbs. “Um. Blake?”

“Joe is fine.”

“Joe,” Kilgour says tentatively, as if trying out the word on his tongue. He brightens. “Mr. Leslie told me you’d be coming later.”

Joe cracks up, inviting the sharp eyes of several more guests. “Does he always make you add a ‘Mr.’?”

Kilgour shakes his head. “It’s polite.”

Polite? Try overly formal. Joe’s got to admit, he likes this kid, nervous tendencies and all. “Is Ellis here?”

Kilgour opens his mouth, but all Joe hears is Leslie’s voice saying, “Yes, I’m here.”

Joe holds out his phone, only realising then that he’d been keeping it on and pressed against his ear this entire time.

“Your assistant’s not that bad,” Joe tells Leslie, looking Kilgour in the eye as he says so. “He’s a good kid. You should be nicer to him.”

“Joe,” Leslie says patiently. For some reason, his voice sounds louder than before—and clearer? “Would you please put your phone down and look to your right?”

Joe looks to his right, and… oh.

“Hi,” Joe says when Leslie walks over and pockets his phone.

“Hi,” Leslie says. He peers up at Kilgour. “Well? Don’t you have paintings to drop? Mugs to smash?”

Kilgour looks between Leslie and Joe and reddens, then pales, then reddens again. “Right, of course. Sorry, sir, I’ll—”

“Don’t run in the gallery,” Leslie whisper-shouts after Kilgour, even though Kilgour is only speed-walking at most.

After Kilgour turns the corner, Joe asks, “Why are you so mean to him?”

“He drops my things,” Leslie says simply. “Why are you defending him? You’ve known him for all of one minute.”

“That one minute was enough to tell me that he’s a hard worker,” Joe says. He knocks his shoulders against Leslie’s. “He likes you, you know. He looks up to you.”

“That’s disappointing,” Leslie says.

“Come on, I know that underneath that thorny exterior is a gooey heart,” Joe says. “You’re fond of him. You would’ve long fired him if you weren’t.”

Leslie looks at him with a blank expression. “And you know this, how?”

“You’re a sap,” Joe says. “People don’t know this about you, but you are.”

“And you know _that_ how?” Leslie asks.

Joe turns to the charcoal sketch, running his eyes over Leslie’s rendition of him. “It’s pretty self-explanatory, don’t you think?” He turns back to Leslie, who’s wearing a faint blush on his cheeks. If they weren’t in such a public place, Joe would push Leslie against the wall and fuck him then and there, but, alas.

Leslie sighs. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just a small thing. Probably got all the details wrong, too.” He ducks his head, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck. Like this, Joe sees that the tips of Leslie’s ears are burned red to match his face.

“I’m right here,” Joe says, poking Leslie in the side. “If you needed a model, you could’ve just looked at me.”

Leslie raises his head, then steps closer until he wraps an arm around Joe’s waist and rests his cheek against Joe’s shoulder. “I wanted to…”

“Wanted to what?” Joe asks when Leslie doesn’t finish.

Leslie curls his fingers, digging them into Joe’s waist, then turns his face so that it’s hidden. “I wanted to show the world how much you mean to me,” he muffles out.

Joe looks at the sketch again, confused. “Why this moment?”

Leslie twists his fingers into Joe’s shirt even more. “It was the moment I realised I was still in love with you.”

Things like this are why Joe never stood a chance from the very beginning, wherever the beginning is. Was it ten years ago, when they were schoolmates? Was it when he rang Leslie up last week? Was it when they finally fell into the same rhythm that night after the dance? He’s not sure.

But, maybe it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they got here in the end.

Joe softens and covers Leslie’s hand on his waist with his own. “See? You are a sap.”

Leslie looks up, face completely red. “Piss off.”

As Joe stands here with Leslie pressed against him, he’s feeling another impulse, another desire, another dare burn inside him.

“You have to stay here, right?” Joe asks. “As the official host?”

Leslie nods. “Until six tonight.”

“That’s too bad. I suppose I’ll have to keep myself occupied until you’re off.” Joe peers in the direction of the entrance. “I think I saw the loo on the way here? There might’ve been a storage closet, too. I could probably pick the lock, or find someone who has the key.” He turns back to Leslie, who’s still as red as before but is now looking back at him with dilated pupils.

Joe grins. He’s got him.

“I don’t have the key to the storage closet, but I’ll do you one better.” Leslie fishes out his keyring, jingling it once. “I have a key to the office next to it.”

Joe grabs the keyring from Leslie before Leslie can withdraw his hand. “Neat. Swing by after you take care of,” Joe waves his hand vaguely, “whatever business you need to take care of.”

As he walks away, he hears Leslie call after him, “It’s a date.”

And, if butterflies erupt in Joe’s stomach as Joe arrives at the office, shuts the blinds, and fingers himself open while propped up against the wall… if the butterflies come back when Leslie knocks approximately twenty minutes later… if the butterflies remain as Leslie bends Joe over the desk, driving his cock deep into Joe, and as Joe returns the favour by letting Leslie ride his cock while Joe sits in the chair, well... who’s going to tell?

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE THEM


End file.
